4.13.16 dim light limps around ornate room that dresses in victorian fashionthe musuemmy family’s moniker for roomthis cove of quietwhere no one ever sitsunless family needs to sit with the moon for long timestern glares pointing at each otherand sharp voices shooting like poisonous arrows from mouthsjust like that nightwhen pops and manangtheir words like a flashlightlight up my flaws hiding in no light room of my bodycausingmy stomach to press on museum room’s chilly feetmy eyes clasp togetherlike a zipperbut leaks still trickleonto the curve of my cheekforming bitter puddles on wooden floor’s face my mouth breaking open like overstuffed cratesrepetitive words falling outme, me, mewrong, wrong, wrongsorry, sorry , sorryhands cover my small crown like a tentfearing pops and manangplacing their angry hands on mehands yelling at medigging finger tips in my pointy ribs imprinting on my skini know they won’tbut i want them tonot harmbut for theirs to talk to my shaking bodytell my sulking spine they can support medespite depression’s small, but dense bodysuffocating gasping spine but i know they won’tinstead their cold wordsslide their rough hands on my spinepropping me to stand though i lay pronelaying prone between bordersthe bodies of “suicidal depression”and “voice of family love”yet voice’s body gives me its icy backwhereas suicidal depressionfaces mecups my body betterwraps me the way mom doeswith warm, red and black checkered blanketbefore her warm veins turn dead cold their voices clutch my bodyshove me into what looks like comfy chairit feels more like cushion of nailsmy eyes never meet manang’sbut my body sees herhair pointing like cat clawseyes wide open, but numbness’s ugly hand covers themblocking her eyes from tasting spill of porous salt mixmy eye’s special drink concoctionstill warm on the floor’s faceher mouth moves but sounds dashing into my earsfeel like icicles stabbing thin leather skin of ear drumsmy lungs punch my chest moving it up and downmy eyes meet hersan anchor sags down on my eyebrowsforming two diagonal linesfacing each other and going down but her voice grasps me like the straight jacketmy 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 paintingaccepts what just happens to prevent 2 buff men in white with big needle and stretcher coming for mei don’t want to go thereto lay between borders ofsuicidal depression & voice of family lovemeans the samethe compassionate one shoves their cold back against minewhile the misunderstood other invites medigging their warm fingers around my spineto live between this bordermeans not knowing whose touch consoles me betterwhen 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. Bradley AfroilanApril 13, 2016 Facebook0 Twitter LinkedIn0 Tumblr 0 Likes