Every step I take
is catatonic,
an acute contrast to
the way my thoughts
bolt about the
convoluted labyrinth
of my psyche.
I couldn't stop crying this morning,
so I took an extra Cipralex*
in the hopes that
my mind would slow down,
even though it has
only been twelve hours
since I last took one,
even though it is
a once-a-day type of thing.
When I go to brush my teeth,
I stare, bemused,
at the bristles,
how it appears as though
they have been passed under
a fisheye lens.
I feel like I am framed
in a Margaret Keane painting.
Every object or face
I happen to fixate on
seems so comically magnified
that it's actually quite sad.
For I simply haven't the room
in this heart of mine
to house something so
colossal.
I am a broken home.
I try to cover up
the blemishes
the thumbtacks have
left in the walls with
glow-in-the-dark stickers
and photographs of
Audrey Hepburn.
But the stickers have begun
to bubble and peel,
the photographs never
resting flat against the surface.
Your typical bandaid solution--
but bandaids don't heal scars,
they only cover them.
When it is dark out,
the scars look like tree branches,
the type that scritch-tap
against the window pane
only to startle you awake
as the world approaches
the pinnacle of night.
I've strung up
fairy lights round
the perimeter of each room,
in the hopes that the scars
won't appear so ghastly
amongst the shadows.
Sometimes,
I plug too many
lights in at once,
the circuits overload,
and then--
blackout.
This dollhouse has shattered;
up until now,
the other girls and boys
loved to play with me,
though they never did play nice.
They pried my doors
from their hinges,
stole away the secrets
nailed beneath the floorboards
only to shun me
when it came to
their own indiscretions.
Atop the satin bedsheets
their tear stains,
some clear dollops,
some mascara-winged streaks
across the pillowcases.
But when I would cry?
The corridors would
ring with silence--
with the echoes of
nobody.
Empty.
Forgotten.
In my mutilated aftermath,
the little boys and girls
no longer had any use for me--
rarely does anyone wish
to entertain the broken.
A cruelly ironic situation
considering they were the ones
who tore me apart in the first place
(but god forbid
they ever take responsibility
for their transgressions).
So they hid me away
in their attics.
at the back of their closets.
underneath their beds
amongst the lost socks;
the dust bunnies;
the monsters.
This is what it looks
like to be continuously
taken advantage of
without ever quite
mustering the courage
to stand up for yourself.
I am the marionette girl.
Eyes a porcelain glaze,
I watch you leave.
I try to look away,
but the strings
protruding from my scalp
pull me upright.
There is no liberation
for the betrayed.
There is only sadness
for the betrayal,
only pills to stymie
the sadness.
But like these strings,
this sadness remains
tethered-to-me
(always).
~
"Why do you want to **** yourself, Jade? So people will miss you? Is that it?"
"I want to **** myself because I know they wouldn't."
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!
jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple
(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
