poems

typed up en masse

until my fingers ache

and my eyes

swim

with the black and white

of empty documents

being filled.

these are

the things i cannot say aloud

because there's something

impersonal

about writing something personal

and putting it

where the world

can see it,

a lack of intimacy

in ink

that doesn't exist

out loud.

reassurance,

knowing that

the words i say

will never be seen by friends,

but instead shared among strangers,

to be read

and forgotten.

my darkest thoughts

are passing entertainment,

a fleeting smile,

a hasty comment,

a brief flash

of truth

that maybe makes you

snap your fingers

in the grocery store

and nod

at the glow of a screen

before you remember

that you have to

pick the kids up

from school

and you put your phone away

and pick up

tonight's dinner.

it is

an impersonal form

of intimacy

to touch someone

so deeply

for such a short time.

and i'll watch

my poems buried

by more poems,

the curse

of being

(self-professed)

prolific.

and soon i won't be able

to find them at all.

even i forget

my own thoughts.

burying them

in the cemetery of my mind

so i can visit them

once a year

and eventually

stop visiting altogether

because i can no longer find the time

to dwell on

masterpieces that have passed on.

or maybe that's an excuse

i tell myself

to avoid

reliving

the experiences behind them.

poems

are my fleeting gift

to myself,

and maybe the world.

i'll

hold them out

towards the world

and wait for love.

and even if they're

made of razors

and they sink

into my skin,

i'll

stamp myself with

humor

until i'm able to pretend

that my poems aren't a confessional,

and i'll lie

to hide

the diagnosis behind them.

my poems are

brought to you

by my crippling

mental illness.

it's a corporation

that you might not have heard of,

but it's the one

that makes my fingers spasm

against the keyboard,

and it doesn't even bother to pay me

for all the work i do

to keep it alive

inside me.

thin red lines on

cream-colored paper

my walls look

like candy canes

swelled with

hardened sugar.

if only i had

a little more

self control.

i ate the walls,

gorged myself

on the plaster dust

as if it were

powdered sugar,

sucked on the paper

like it was made of

peppermint.

i could not taste

its sweetness,

but i felt it

settling in my gut

slipping down my throat

and pooling

just above the waist.

now my roof

is sagging

and my stomach

is sagging

and i can confirm

horizontal striped wallpaper

is fattening

but not enough

to fill the void

inside my stomach

that seems to stretch down

past my knees.

sometimes when the vines grow down my arm,

past the thin skin of my elbows (translucent enough to see the veins)

and down to touch the knuckles on my fingers,

i let them wrap around my pulse points

and close my eyes and wait for them to pierce my skin, drain me.

these vines are inky black and made of reflections,

blinking and mutating blue gradients of light and dark intertwined,

and i think some days they want to bleed me dry,

and i think i'm too tired to think about anything else.

and the vines around my head cover my eyes so i don't

have to think about all the regrets (regrets) and desperate

pleas for undoing redoing undone things and everything that

i can't bear to put into any kind of meaningful thoughts

and every so often i wake up to see nothing but darkness,

the contorting blue light black light blinding vines against

the precious eyelids that can prove to be too heavy to open some days.

but there's someone else's fingertips touching mine, i can feel it,

and i don't think i'm alone at all, and the vines aren't too tight,

in fact they're hugging me comfortingly but they're winding and

binding and ever so dangerous.

sometimes they grow all the way down to my fingertips, and wait

for me to brush them away, and i've let them get out of control

when i reach for your hand, but there's something about

the sunset in your eyes that reminds me that these vines are

temporary and i'm slowly unweaving myself until i can

remember how to breath again.

Seems everybody is doing it. Too trendy for my blood. This fate is inévitable, but I believe I will wait to draw that final curtain. All those people killed back in à flood with Noah. People dying in à pandémic has become an épidémic. Dying is for certain, of which you can be sure. Death is the disease to which there is no cure.

Written by Gina Adams