4.13.16

dim light limps around
ornate room that dresses in victorian fashion
the musuem
my family’s moniker for room
this cove of quiet
where no one ever sits
unless family needs to sit with the moon for long time
stern glares pointing at each other
and sharp voices shooting like poisonous arrows from mouths

just like that night
when pops and manang
their words like a flashlight
light up my flaws hiding in no light room of my body
causing
my stomach to press on museum room’s chilly feet
my eyes clasp together
like a zipper
but leaks still trickle
onto the curve of my cheek
forming bitter puddles
on wooden floor’s face
my mouth breaking open like overstuffed crates
repetitive words falling out

me, me, me
wrong, wrong, wrong
sorry, sorry , sorry
hands cover my small crown like a tent
fearing pops and manang
placing their angry hands on me
hands yelling at me
digging finger tips in my pointy ribs imprinting on my skin
i know they won’t
but i want them to
not harm
but for theirs to talk to my shaking body
tell my sulking spine they can support me
despite depression’s small, but dense body
suffocating gasping spine

but i know they won’t
instead their cold words
slide their rough hands on my spine
propping me to stand though i lay prone
laying prone between borders
the bodies of “suicidal depression”
and “voice of family love”
yet voice’s body gives me its icy back
whereas suicidal depression
faces me
cups my body better
wraps me the way mom does
with warm, red and black checkered blanket
before her warm veins turn dead cold

their voices clutch my body
shove me into what looks like comfy chair
it feels more like cushion of nails

my eyes never meet manang’s
but my body sees her
hair pointing like cat claws
eyes wide open, but numbness’s ugly hand covers them
blocking her eyes from tasting
spill of porous salt mix
my eye’s special drink concoction
still warm on the floor’s face

her mouth moves but sounds dashing into my ears
feel like icicles stabbing thin leather skin of ear drums
my lungs punch my chest
moving it up and down
my eyes meet hers
an anchor sags down on my eyebrows
forming two diagonal lines
facing each other and going down

but her voice
grasps me like the straight jacket
my mind paints
when those numbers fly out her mouth like a flying dagger
”51-50”

my eyes breathe and paint a white block over the painting
accepts what just happens to prevent 2 buff men in white
with big needle and stretcher coming for me
i don’t want to go there

to lay between borders of
suicidal depression & voice of family love
means the same
the compassionate one shoves their cold back against mine
while the misunderstood other invites me
digging their warm fingers around my spine
to live between this border
means not knowing whose touch consoles me better
when my brain and heart shout about mental health








30 days left of school. i'm so tired. there are so many things to do. i'm scared i won't finish. i know i will though. i had my interview today. it went well.