What Is It In These

What Is It In These

A Poem by Authoress

I'm not sure if this is any good? It feels forced. Then again, I can't write anymore, and yeah. Mm.

What is it in these, our fingers, that hold us down?
Where was it written on my skin
that I was supposed to carve and curl into
myself when I could not
curve into the curve of someone else?
In the spot on my back, in the freckle on my
elbow? In the tiny tiny lines of almost-green
in my eyes?
It's not written on me anywhere, or in me anywhere, but
the constant scripture that's seared into my
every muscle, ligament, tissue, cell
is enough to find its way into the nerves in my
fingers and the nerves in my head
and I'm preaching through scars
to my silent bedroom.
There are more music boxes to find,
to wind up, to let play until the melody
has replaced all other thoughts I have, until
the tune is so familiar I can't focus on
it and still somehow it's all
I have in my head, and it becomes the most patient pink noise
that's so much paler and so much
safer than the steely gray of beforehand.
What is it, in my fingers, that is possessed with red?
Ashen, or purple, bruised an ugly
green, blood-shot or pale or shadowed into the
color of the half-sea when I look in the mirror.
What is it, and where, and can I find colors that are
kinder to me than these are; than I am?
What is it in these, my fingers, that cannot hold
me down enough to the ground
I can only find when I'm too high above to land on it?
Why can't I write anymore?
I don't want to ever get used to it.

© 2015 Authoress

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it seems like that often...but then the bruises will go away, and the fingers will move once again.

Posted 6 Years Ago

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1 Review
Added on May 24, 2015
Last Updated on May 24, 2015
Tags: self harm, depression, suicide, love



Avon Park, FL

singer/songwriter, half-assed youtuber, love lover, hug master more..

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