The Poetry Marathon

Imagine butterflies in a corpse.

Imagine how their yellow wings

Rust in the darkness. How their

Little legs get lost in

The tissue. I hope

They could escape

One day soon.

Cut them

Out.

Double Stuf Oreos are only 1.86 times as stuffed as classic Oreos.

24% of deaths from the ages of 15-24 are from suicides.

Opossums are so excited when they are scared they pass out.

Mental disorders in youth are ranked as the second highest hospital care expenditure in Canada, surpassed only by injuries.

The smell of fresh grass is released when plants are in distress.

Only 1 in 5 children who need mental health services receive them.

A lobster’s bladder is in its head.

49% of those afflicted with depression or anxiety do not seek treatment.

I am reclaiming this body with a different kind of scar.

Instead of the razor,

I have chosen the ink filled needle to dance on my skin.

The razor used to take salsa lessons on my arms,

Hip-hop lessons on my thighs,

And the occasional ballet lesson on my stomach.

The razor was scheduled to practice three times a day.

When it dulled, a new one took its place.

All silver shine,

All hopeful gleam.

I’d consider tattoos more hopeful, now.

They at least represent me a little better.

It will take me some time

To mask the hurt I have caused my body,

But I am on my way to renting the dance studio

To kinder students.

My anatomical hearts beat in tune.

The blues of my birds lull me to sleep.

Sometimes, I wonder if

Everybody gets this sad, or if I have an unfortunate group of friends. What I mean is there is no

Way everybody has competitions of who’s the most fucked up. Which one

Of us knows

The deepest pain. I wonder if you’re

The kind of person who wants me alive

For a reason other than knowing there is someone worse off than you.

You aren’t.

Take me to the breathing blue love,

Endless like you.

I’m leaving soon.

(Sorry).

The salty headache

Does not feel so deja vu.

If you see me,

Save me.

I once believed I was timeless-

That I would last forever in people’s memories

Simply because they claimed to find me memorable.

I am no longer sure if that’s true.

If I were to kill myself,

I think the rage might consume my loved ones.

I think my mother might shred my corpse to ashes.

I think my father might spread my ashes in different toilets;

Flush me into the sewers.

I think my sister might refuse to speak.

I think the friend who called my therapist when I told her I was suicidal might only shower in my blood.

I think the friend who never knew how serious it was might never jaywalk again;

She would always look both ways, even on one-way streets.

I think the friend who attempted suicide a week before I did might start screaming in empty parks again.

I think the friend who is no longer my friend and refuses to reconnect might regret it.

I think people’s lives might be changed if I’m gone,

But I don’t think they’d remember me the way I’d want them to.

I wipe my hand against the foggy glass.

The maroon mocks me.

If I were walking, I would

Climb these metal arms,

Ask them to hold me close

Before throwing me off the edge.

When I was younger,

My relatives used to throw me

Around the pool like a ball.

The anticipation before the splash

Made the whole game exhilarating,

And terrifying.

As I soared through the air,

My stomach hugged itself tightly.

Let the bridge hug me the way my stomach once did to itself.

Let the bridge hug me the way water returns to itself after it splashes.

Let the bridge hug me the way I wish my family still would.

Let the bridge release me into the water beneath.

I know how to swim.

I hope I will not need to.

But I am driving from a city that does not yet know me

To a city that knows me too well.

I am supposed to remember the good things.

Maybe I will experience more good things.

Maybe the good things don’t matter enough for me to stay.

Death is real,

Though I’ve never known it be.

Rather, I’ve never been able to make it real.

To say I yearn for death wouldn’t be quite right.

My frontal lobe is buried under debris,

But the rest of my brain cannot find it in the pancake layers.

My frontal lobe is screaming,

Wiggling its fingers in the cracks,

But nobody is around to see it,

Which means it must make no sound.

Have you ever had that dream

Where you’re screaming,

But nothing comes out?

Remember how hollow your throat feels?

I want to get better, I do.

I want to be rescued from this collapse,

But I am running out of oxygen.

I cannot keep asking for help if nobody hears me.

I beg,

But the doctors do not believe I am sick enough.

I beg,

But my therapist is on maternity leave.

I beg,

But my friends do not have the tools to heal me.

I’ve heard astronaut tears are Jell-O.

If this is true, mermaid tears are seashells;

Pirate tears are rotted wood;

Pokemon tears are pixels;

My tears are stardust that was never wished on.

I can’t say I cry much.

I teared up at my grandmother’s funeral

Only because my mother begged me not to be next.

I have always wanted to be a shooting star.

Maybe someone would find hope in me.

Maybe someone would see me and smile.

I know people claim to care for me,

But I can never discern if they mean it.

Another reason I want to be a shooting star is because they are already dead.

Their matter is just spiralling down to Earth.

If my body could slam into the ground,

All limbs and organs bursting,

I would already be gone.

I only know how to trim my wings with nail clippers.

I’ve never been one to maintain good looks.

Not that I don’t want to look good,

But I do not have the energy

To gel my hair, brush my teeth, or flatten my belly

Without wishing for the nail clippers to be machetes.

I only know how to trim my wings with nail clippers.

I’ve never been one for heights.

Sure, I’ve gone ziplining before,

But the way the adrenaline

Quickens my blood pressure

Makes my bones hum to a tune

That makes my skin itch.

I only know how to trim my wings with nail clippers.

I guess I’m not an angel,

At least not one God would like to keep around.

I don’t know if I believe in God,

But if He is real,

I doubt He likes me.

He must have poisoned my mind with Eve’s apple juice.

He must have planted the seeds in my esophagus.

I don’t know how else I could have grown to be

So dependent on others’ kindness.

Maybe it is their action that is supposed to cleanse me.

I guess I only know how to trim my nails with fantasies.