you are 13 years old and made of fresh
cotton- half of you is tied to the sky. the other
half only knows how to fall apart. your friends
are shoving push pins into their hands during
class. they come to school each day wearing more
and more horizontal lines on their arms like
new bracelets. sometimes they start to spell
the beginnings of words. unfinished thoughts.
misplaced mourning. you can’t stop your eyes
from searching for scars. you’re watching warily
each time your friends come too close to railings.
a callous teacher tells you, don’t worry. if they jump,
all they’ll do is break bones. so you take matters into
your own hands, begging them to stop, to
apologize to their own limbs. they blink at you
like you just don’t understand, and maybe you don’t.
one night, you dive your fingers into a lit candle
without thinking. you jerk away immediately,
terrified at your own boldness. and tentatively,
you try again, letting flame lick hungrily at your
fingertips, then your wrists, then all the places
grief has touched your body. as the fire slowly dies
out, you lean back into bed, drunk on the smell of
burning flesh and vanilla, tracing your blisters like
new constellations in the dark. you’re whispering,
I’m sorry. this isn’t personal
by Wanda Deglane, from Bittersweet
Originally published by Selcouth Station.
