I choose hanging instead of a blade to the guts
because I don't want to make a mess on the carpet.
The neighbours never celebrate my birthday
so it sounds like a good idea to turn my body into a piñata.
I staple a note; an excerpt from a poem by Gibran,
to the collar of my tuxedo:
Only when you drink from the river of silence
shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top,
then you shall begin to climb.
And the earth shall claim your limbs.
Then shall you truly dance.
It reminds me of a session with my therapist
telling me to believe I can be a good dancer.
Too bad she would never see
the beautiful waltz of this lifeless body.
My therapist doesn't believe in ghosts
so I choose to become one myself.
Five years after my funeral,
I visit the graveyard where I was buried.
It now resembles a victim of war.
My tombstone is the only one unscathed in this valley of the dead.
I see a rose bloom out of where my heart used to live,
curled around the bones of my rib cage.
It is the only bright colour, a stark red
amidst this landscape of scattered rubbles of gray.
At least in the end,
something beautiful could birth
out of me.
YOU ARE READING
Anxiety and Things that Shatter
Poetry"Anxiety, you are lightening and a thunder only I can hear. In my despair, you wear an intimidating smile like a glittering stretch mark on the skin of the horizon." Cover by @DeathsDarkSoul
