The Poem That’s Beautiful
Someone once told me
poetry is all about making
the bad
beautiful.
I could do that.
I could tell you anxiety
is like standing inside a dirty pond full of sand.
The bugs crawling up your back,
buzzing in your ears,
in your stomach,
in your eyes.
Having a panic attack is like
having a car alarm for a brain.
Listen to the heart beat
like an enthusiastic drummer at 3am.
The throat closing up;
listen as I swallow down every emotion I could have.
The spit and shit and sinus mixing together
to create one huge mess.
I could tell you that
wanting to die is wanting to be a star in the sky,
guiding others long after you’re gone.
Just wanting, for once in your life,
to feel shimmering and beautiful.
I could tell you all of that.
Make it pretty.
Dress it up in fancy clothes.
Pretend it’s 1920.
But I’m not going to.
Because that would be lying to you.
I don’t want to lie to you.
Instead, I’ll tell you I live
in a constant state of grey.
Cracks in the sidewalk.
Splinters in my fingers.
I hold back a cry
so you can hear laughter.
Instead, I’ll tell you that
wanting to die feels like
ripping out every single vein
I could possibly have.
String them up like fairy lights,
look at how they sparkle blue in the sunlight.
Better than being inside me.
Instead, I’ll tell you
I’ve been getting sick for the past three weeks
anytime I eat anything.
Wanting to vomit every single intestine
that lives inside me out.
My head light-headed
like gravity was omitted.
I’m not going to lie to you.
Every day, I spend twenty minutes
getting out of bed,
trying to find motivation
only to see my battery at negative one percent.
Every day someone chalks up my feelings to nothing
I want to crack a skull open,
specifically mine,
watch as the blood drains
into the sewer in the street.
Every day I live is a miracle.
I’m learning that poetry
is life in a costume.
Life wearing makeup.
Life glittering in the sun.
It’s not real.
It’s absolutes.
It’s X is greater than Y.
It’s as fake as mannequins in a store window.
It’s hard for me to believe others
when they tell me it gets better
if everything I’ve ever written is fake.
Just life in costume.
I wonder when life will reveal who it truly is.
I’d love to see it when it does.
I’ll take notes.
Take pictures to remember.
Document who it is so that
when my life finally starts to be in color,
I’ll know what to do.
