DEPRESSION BUILDS A SCARECROW
sitting hunched over
the shipwreck of your sternum
churning breath from burning lungs
searching for survivors in the blood
all the little birds beneath the wrist
a pulse
a pulse
a black bird
perched on every rib
tearing the flesh from your chest
with bone sharpened beaks and tongues
cut from razor-wire fence
depression is
an abusive relationship you have with your skin
sitting cross-legged in the dark
a mattress tossed on dirty floors
rocking and whispering
prayers to a god you don’t believe in
to any god who will listen
.
.
.
.
IT’S OK TO SAY I’M NOT OK
something I am working on
asking for
the side effects of a life lived alone / when you steal your own tongue / seal it in a jar /
send it / home / with the child you might have been / if not for its weight / if you had
someone
who lives in your head six months a year
who listened
without changing their name / fact / when you sew your tongue / to the roof of your
mouth / with your own lips / to avoid / goodbye / you become someone new every
day / someone who forgets how to say –
watch your mouth wilt like a flower
when it hurts
How many serpents of razorblade / can you hold / in your throat / before the words
/ cut themselves / loose / how many nights / did I pillow my face / with the forgetful
-ness of breath / scream my suicide into cotton / while writing / this poem
exists means
I must have made it
must have washed / thunder from my clothes / the rain from my blood / until the sky /
like a champagne flute / shattered its dying rose / through the letters in my name /
how it aches to pick yourself / from a lineup / in the closet / every morning
if you stand in your own shadow
long enough
you learn to speak/ those three little words / I’m not ok / to mean / becoming
comfortable with your own birth / sets graveyards on fire / a thousand tombs violent
rocking / how the trees applaud
how a child with your familiar face
stares from your mirror
returns your voice / as your bones release / their butterflies