On Your Hands

If you were to spread

My pain onto your hands

What would you see?

-

You might expect colors splattering

Blues and greys and vacant hues

Lacking vibrancy and reflecting

The sadness within

-

But if this were sadness

Then why do your hands bleed?

Why do old wounds still remain

Their pale surfaces highlighting

Your weary skin and crooked fingers

-

You might shout and claim

“This isn’t real!”

All the while you

Bandage every crimson channel

With duck tape and live wire

-

If it’s fake, then why do I see

Encrusted in your nails the

Futile attempts at sanity and the

Desperate harm engraved to numb all other pain

-

Now you will finally look up

Upon the life swaying precariously

The marks lining her arms

The hollows in her bones

The rose petals blessing her fingertips

And realize that your disbelief

Is on my hands

-

This is the ninth poem in RE: SURGENCE, a poetry collection by Amanda Starks that shares what it's like to have and fight against mental illness in a free-form, lyrical prose.

Be aware that topics and themes may include suicide, self-harm, and isolation.

NEXT POEM:

PREVIOUS POEM:

If you want a free copy of RE: SURGENCE in an online, fully formatted PDF document, subscribe to my email newsletter at www.amandastarks.com ( found under the CONTACTS tab ), and it will be in your inbox once all the poems have been published here!