By Sarah Allen
#Just Mental Illness Things
Cold bath water
(how long have you been in here, anyway?)
Stale bedroom air
(you should really open your windows more)
Pills lined up on your bedside table like ducks in a row
(Your sister tells you it looks like you’re on bed-rest)
Mouth full of blood
(when was the last time you brushed your teeth?)
Rubber band snaps on raw wrists
(Bad habit. Find a substitute.)
Broken glass spread out on the floor
(That was mom’s favorite wine glass. You’re sorry)
Nails bitten raw and bleeding
(also a bad habit. You seem to be full of those.)
Safe as houses
(when was the last time you felt safe in your own body, in your own house?)
Safe as houses
(you’ve turned off all the lights, left the doors unlocked.)
Safe as houses
(is an empty house still a safe house, or even a house at all?)
“bathtub” © therilesyouknow (https://www.flickr.com/photos/thatrileygirl/7858024/)
Fragment
you took my bones and ground them down into powder
so you could use it as
seasoning for
all the other people you devoured
because as much as you loved leaving a succession
of half eaten
Corpses in your wake to take your place, there
was always something missing
and i guess that something turned out to be me
i guess the taste of my rot
just so happened to fit the bill
because you always needed more
more bones
more bodies
more mutilation
and God knows i am the most delectable form
of wreckage there is
The Poet
i called you last night, asked you to
read me to sleep.
but you read me your poetry-
instead of lulling me to sleep
i heard the contempt in your voice
as you read things that can only be described as
an eloquent assault on anyone who had ever wronged you
anyone who had dared to cross you.
You were relentless.
and i thought about how you could turn a cancer patient into
a poem if you really wanted to.
i listened so intently that i could hear your ragged breathing
even though i’m pretty sure i wasn’t supposed to.
you could probably write a poem about that too
i sat wanting you to write about me,
Lusting after the possibility of being the reason for the words dripping from your tongue
even if it was a poem about how much you resented me
Darling, just turn me into something worth reading.
“Typewriter” © Jeff Kubina (https://www.flickr.com/photos/kubina/154753727/)
Sarah Allen began writing this year and has since been published in three different online literary magazines. She is an aspiring editor and spends most of her time reading.
