hospital girl
In my disappearance I am more visible.
Self-enclosed, not needing, I stare unblinking at my reflection as it fades and becomes more unrecognizable. I revisit traumas and wonder if they really existed at all. I bring myself back to the same scene over and over again. Overturned, struggling. Intrusive. Bleeding, I make pain visible in order that I may see a truth. My body translates for me where words lack. I watch my limbs shrink in, find myself in the spaces around them, become negative space. I know I am badly failing at survival but it feels like the only way to live. I wait to fall farther. All I'm left with is an emptiness, a powerful sense of loss. I tear apart my life looking to find it and now my time seems almost up. I am still a five year-old child, just knowing she has to get away from the body, the scene of the crime.
Hospital girl, in files and hallways, waiting always. Waiting for doctors, waiting to get out, my life is a series of waiting rooms. There is no end to their words of "Chronic" and "splitting" if I dare show an emotion or an opinion, if I pose too much of a problem to their sensibilities and rules. secretly cutting with broken shards of glass and anything I can find or sneak in. Put in the worst wards, everything taken from me.
I keep hitting 'escape' but I am still here. I think you die trying or you just die. How am I supposed to separate from myself, from this lust for visible damage? What am I to do without physical pain? I need it as my constant companion when everyone else leaves. I think there always must be an emergency for me to matter, screaming sirens in red and blue, crowds gathered on the sidewalks. I feel like the aftermath of an accident; a chalk outline of a body, the smell of illness and hospital antiseptic.
Where am I if not tearing myself limb from limb?
What am I if not illness?
I think it's safe to say I'm still burning.
Self-enclosed, not needing, I stare unblinking at my reflection as it fades and becomes more unrecognizable. I revisit traumas and wonder if they really existed at all. I bring myself back to the same scene over and over again. Overturned, struggling. Intrusive. Bleeding, I make pain visible in order that I may see a truth. My body translates for me where words lack. I watch my limbs shrink in, find myself in the spaces around them, become negative space. I know I am badly failing at survival but it feels like the only way to live. I wait to fall farther. All I'm left with is an emptiness, a powerful sense of loss. I tear apart my life looking to find it and now my time seems almost up. I am still a five year-old child, just knowing she has to get away from the body, the scene of the crime.
Hospital girl, in files and hallways, waiting always. Waiting for doctors, waiting to get out, my life is a series of waiting rooms. There is no end to their words of "Chronic" and "splitting" if I dare show an emotion or an opinion, if I pose too much of a problem to their sensibilities and rules. secretly cutting with broken shards of glass and anything I can find or sneak in. Put in the worst wards, everything taken from me.
I keep hitting 'escape' but I am still here. I think you die trying or you just die. How am I supposed to separate from myself, from this lust for visible damage? What am I to do without physical pain? I need it as my constant companion when everyone else leaves. I think there always must be an emergency for me to matter, screaming sirens in red and blue, crowds gathered on the sidewalks. I feel like the aftermath of an accident; a chalk outline of a body, the smell of illness and hospital antiseptic.
Where am I if not tearing myself limb from limb?
What am I if not illness?
I think it's safe to say I'm still burning.
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