We Write to Heal - a Mental Health Poetry Journey

Supple skin,

they say it’s carved like marble,

flawless,

untouchable.

“Perfection; nothing can compare.”

but beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

and I feel those eyes everywhere,

hunted by hawks,

or worse —

watched by the flies on the walls.

Eyes everywhere,

Bzzzz —

their gazes pierce me,

their whispers sting,

Bzzzz —

how can I be perfect?

Bzzzz —

I hear them echo in every corner,

Bzzzz —

every move dissected,

how can I be perfect when

the room is alive with flies?

even in my own home,

as comfortable as it seems,

they find their way in,

infesting,

buzzing.

My thoughts are infested too,

my mind is not safe,

passing on every harsh word,

every careless judgment,

Bzzzz —

the chorus grows louder,

until my own voice is drowned and deafened out.

How can I protect this so-called “supple skin”?

Do you also see me as a marble statue?

Smooth,

beautiful,

finished.

I've been told so,

I’ve tried to believe it,

But what if I’m not special at all?

is perfection achievable,

or just an idiosyncrasy,

a tight maneuver you chase forever?

my words feel shallow,

I feel like a hidden shoal,

grounding,

yet damaging,

while wreckage drifts to shore,

Can I truly be sculpted into something to admire,

when everything else carries;

more beauty,

more perfection,

more grace,

than I could ever hold?

I want to disappear —

no hawks, no flies, no mirrors,

a place where supple skin is just skin,

where no chisel touched marble,

where no one asks for perfection at all.

Up there,

in that place,

I feel empty,

a place where a breeze can roar like a storm,

nothing to strike,

nothing to clash against,

just an empty space,

in this thing I call a head,

Now my thoughts swirl in as the breeze turns into a storm,

they echo and ricochet off the biology containing the space,

never ceasing,

always tumbling around,

until they mold and grow,

Now, the breeze becomes a storm,

the storm turns into something more;

a breeze turned storm turned hurricane,

centralized and battering me from the inside,

just an empty space,

in this thing I call a skull,

The eye of the storm watches helplessly,

as all I know is tossed and thrown;

as if it meant nothing,

alone,

yet not alone;

the hurricane howls from inside,

from breeze to storm,

storm to hurricane,

hurricane to tornado —

the only path becomes chaos,

more violent and consuming,

just an empty space,

in this thing I call a brain,

"Where did this weather come from?"

you've heard it said before,

"Isn't it crazy how the weather can change on a dime?"

Thoughts I've had too,

"Don't you hate unpredictable weather?"

but don't you ever think about the fact —

that maybe you might hate empty spaces even more than unpredictable weather?

especially when thinking about,

the empty space,

in this thing I call my mind.

My days look the same as everyone’s,

but why do I struggle to move?

My lips stay sealed;

they don’t want to hear what I say,

so why should I bother leaving

the comfort of my bed?

Churning,

rumbling,

my insides twist and knot,

my breath caught in my ribs,

a silent scream echoing through my chest.

I sit with these familiar feelings —

so why do I still feel so much fear?

I’ve felt this way my entire life,

never quite connecting with my peers.

Choking,

crushing,

harder and harder to contain,

bending, buckling under the weight —

the weight of expectation, of silence,

of the person I pretend to be.

Something feels wrong,

almost all of the time.

The more years that pass,

the more rigid I become,

like an old oak twisted beyond return.

Is it too late to change,

to rewire myself

at the root?

If I’ve known nothing else,

how can I trust that change is real?

Is it for me at all?

or only to quiet and silence

the fear —

the fear of never truly connecting,

of being forever unseen?

It feels safer here,

where I don’t have to hear

the words I whisper to myself,

year after year.

It is almost more fulfilling,

to live inside the fear —

to cradle it,

or rather, to let it cradle me in return,

even as it slowly costs me pieces of myself I haven’t yet met.

Do you still love me,

even though I am just a person,

the same as you are a person too?

Do you still love me,

even after learning

that all my pieces and parts

work just the same as yours?

Do you still believe that I was

made just for you?

Made to fit in the palm of your hand,

to give you hope for a future yet to come?

A future beyond our control,

beyond the reach of either you or me —

a future born of chaos,

a future where you might not love me at all,

and a future where I choose

to no longer love you.

Would you still find a way to love me

in this imagined future?

Or would we remain the same?

Is this a future you run from —

or one you would welcome,

gathering me into your arms lovingly?

Inhale.

Filling my insides,

my body rises —

breathless,

thoughtless,

numb.

I want to forget,

I want to feel nothing at all,

more than that,

I want to stop thinking altogether.

Without;

panic sets in —

it claws at my ribcage,

seeking its escape.

With;

panic lingers still —

my words stumble,

like a tangled mess with no sense to be made.

My closest comfort,

my silent partner in this dance,

it holds me tight,

no judgement,

no harsh words,

just a hush and spin.

My silent friend,

my comfort and my curse,

my worst enemy,

a gentle hand that strangles,

yet remains my closest ally.

How do I become the person I want to be,

when my lungs are so full,

and my mind is wrapped so tight,

never looking to let me go.

Others do not find solace in me here —

solace in my empty words,

solace in my own confusion.

Exhale.

My eyes stay hidden,

but can you read my thoughts

in the tremor of my hands?

They spiral in habitual loops —

echoing my days,

echoing my nights.

Endless cycle;

repeating,

unbroken.

If I can’t trust myself,

how do I step forward?

My future folds into my present.

Endless cycle;

always returning to itself.

Tick-tock,

I watch the numbers flicker and glow,

each digit a silent accusation,

etched into my bright screen.

Tick-tock,

seconds begin their climb,

before the minutes drift into hours,

and my hands remain frozen,

mid-thought—

my legs numbingly still,

my feet rooted to the floor.

Tick-tock,

the clock marches on—

as it is almost time to surrender;

and almost time for a soldier to lay down their arms.

Tick-tock,

each day a mirror of the last,

reflections repeat unbroken,

each morning echoes the same silent promise;

'tomorrow will be different',

but tomorrow arrives steadily,

already wearing yesterday’s face.

Tick-tock,

how do I remember tomorrow,

when yesterday still clings to me,

it clings like wet clothes on a rainy day.

Tick-tock,

and the months before that,

Tick-tock,

continue to drink me empty,

Tick-tock,

like a thirsty flower drinks the rain,

Tick-tock,

until poof—

gone!

Tick-tock,

and so I begin again.....