Hard Bones, Electric Wire: April
Trigger warning: graphic description of self-injury.
These bones are too hard.
I can’t break them.
I can’t feel my heart all the way behind them.
If I scratched off my skin,
I could hold these little blue veins in my wrists.
I can see them already.
Oh, God, I’m shaking thinking about it.
Why are they visible?
I could feel my heart in them.
I could know it was beating.
I could pull them out –
disconnect them like electric wire.
I could hold them like slippery blue worms pulsing between my fingers.
Then I could cut them open –
clean like the end of a hose.
I could watch the blood wash the floor or feed the dirt.
I could see myself fade in the pool.
No more chaos.
No more noise.
I could be deflated and flat.
I wouldn’t be me anymore.
It’s what everyone wants anyway.
I’m confused by this…did April write this in the past or is she currently contemplating suicide? There’s no explanation given…
Please, April, even if you think it’s just a poem, you are asking for help, cliche aside. If anyone can give a contact, please help her at least seek it if she wishes.
I don’t usually explain poems since I think they lose power when they aren’t read through the reader’s own thoughts and experiences. This is a poem about the overwhelming pressure to be someone else and the sometimes consuming desire to physically mutilate oneself to match the mutilations others are forcing on one’s soul/spirit/person. This is not a cry for help but an expression of pressures from the past. Thank you for checking on me.