Scrubbing away yesterday’s make-up, I glare into the mirror at the person who is uncovered: I don’t know who she is. Part of me recognises her, like an old friend from childhood. We don’t get on like we used to. Saying that, I can’t remember a time when we did get on.
I smooth moisturiser into my freshly washed face; it’s so soft, yet I feel every imperfection underneath my fingertips and it repulses me. I want to scratch, scratch and keep on scratching until it’s even and smooth.
Layers of lengthening mascara lick through my short eyelashes - hiding the childish eyes that peer out from within me. Streaks of eyeliner, lashings of eyeshadow, dabs of highlighter are thrown in to the façade. My face feels naked, I rub foundation in until it’s warm beneath my fingertips melts into my skin - always conscious of not leaving the tell-tale foundation line.
Once I’m all covered up, I take a final look in the mirror. I know she’s in there, she always will be, but I just can’t stand to look at her: I don’t want other people to look at her.
Ugly is me
Beautiful is my face; ugly is me.
Pretty is my body; ugly is me.
Thoughtful is my mind; ugly is me.
Caring is my heart; ugly is me.
Tender is my touch; ugly is me.
Sensitive is my soul; ugly is me.
Ugly is me.
Ugly is me.
Until I choose to be free.
Ugly is me.
I look upon myself
Deep inside a shadowed heart,
a flame flickers faintly, its body
in the gentlest breeze,
and struggles to stand up again.
Just keep burning.
Warm waxy tear drops
over the edges,
remoulding as they cool;
ready to be burned again.
as a jar is placed over it. Barely,
a chance to beg for mercy,
the air is sucked from its lungs.
The waxy tears solidify.
And it just waits
to be lit again.
Slowly suffocating from your silence:
swivelling in my gut; your harmless violence
cuts deep with its dull blade.
A constant ache that never heals, pinching at my airways.
I’m struggling to breathe,
Cut me quickly: so I can bleed.
Fear grips me firmly by the hand, pleading with me not to go. Courage seizes my other hand, demanding that I follow. Me - I just hover, undecided. Logic rests a cool hand on my shoulder, saying only I’ll know what’s best. Ignorance just shrugs its shoulders, stating it couldn’t care less. Me - I just stand, oblivious. Reassurance wraps its arms around me, lets me know that I’m not on my own. Self-hatred peels it away from me, spitting at me - grow some backbone! Me - I just stand, confused. And then I realise, that it’s no surprise, that people think I’m crazy. Me? I just stand, waiting… for the voices to save me.
The Poem I Would Never Write
I have tried to write this poem…
so many times;
I just can’t bring myself to do it.
This poem has had so many different opening lines; but then I can’t put myself through it.
I long to write this poem.
I just can’t. It still hurts.
So, this poem - although it should be written -
will be the poem
that I will probably never write.
What does it feel like to be so
Free to go…
Free to do…
That’s not true -
I know that.
And you know that.
Confined to your channels:
Bridges restrain you like seat belts,
so that people can cross you
when you’re in their way.
they spit right at you.
Going along with the flow.
You don’t get to choose;
you can’t just stop and change your mind.
There’s only one destiny for you:
to flow into the ocean.
The American dream for a river.
But what’s so good about the ocean anyway?
Depression is my best friend because it’s there for me when no-one else is.