My Voice

I talk to myself

In steamed-up mirrors

towel tied tightly to chest

with an earnest expression

plastered on my face

and hands waving

in confident patterns

to see if I can convince myself

that I’m beautiful

I’m nice to look at.

I have an interesting face.

Because I want to be beautiful.

 

I talk to myself as

I pause in doorways.

Light streaming from behind me.  

As I climb stairs.

The dank, narrow slats

bringing me closer to Earth.

As I walk home on

tidy gray sidewalks.

“Do it.”

I beg.

I cajole.

I threaten myself.
“It won’t be as painful as you thought it was.”

 

Lie. Lie. Fucking liar.

Needles stick in me.

Tiny pinpricks of pain.

But Goddamn,

they go all the way through.

I flee back out of doors.

The soles of my bare feet

ripped by thorns.

I don’t stop.

Back straight.

Neck prickling

Fists clenched.

Feeling like screaming.

Insults replaying in my head

Over and over again.

It whispers so only I can hear.

“It’s better you found out this way isn’t it?”

And I scream at myself.

Imagine throwing sharp objects

Knives of pain, ridicule and fear

at this stupid, stupid voice

which I  hate.

Goddamnit.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s painful.

And I never want to hear it again.

 

I fall to my knees

when I’m out of sight.

Dramatic music

deafening me to all else.

And I mourn,

wailing and screaming

for all that could have been.

I pour out all my hate.

In one long wordless bleat.

I hate myself.

I hate my voice.

I hate the whole fucking world.

 

I want to deafen myself to my

inner voice,

to my inner critic

which wonders

why I don’t ever do

anything.

I want blissful silence

and velvet chairs

to slump against.

I want unconditional love.

and gentle fingers lifting my chin,

wiping away tears.

I want rainbows after rain

and happy ever afters

in cotton candy coloured clouds.

I want warm hands

gripping my shoulders.
I want someone to look me straight in the eyes

and tell me

-even if it’s a lie,-

That I’m beautiful.
That I’m worth it.

That I have

strong passion

and that’s enough.

 

But I want to be able to move forward,

to start running towards

something new,

something different,

without asking

my inner voice-

“What do you think?”

Like a cringing puppy

abused and beaten

so desperate for kindness,

It’ll leap towards the first.
Because it’s

scared, terrified

that he’ll be the only.

 

Because I’m so dependent

Like a helpless child,

fallen on the floor

Waiting for someone to rush over

and pick me up.

Tell me that I’m okay

and that this too

is temporary.

This too shall pass.

I’m tired of waiting

sprawled out on cold

cemented floors.

Knees bleeding and

elbows scraped

whimpering my heart out

Quietly.

Always quietly.

Because I don’t want the

other kids to think

I’m a baby

who can’t handle a little

bit of pain.
Who can’t get up

on her own

when I fall.

But I’m not just a child

I’m the helpless baby.


I sob silently.
And the only one who hears me

Is that stupid voice.

He’s seen me at my lowest.

He’s seen me in the dirt,

tears smudged across my face.

He’s seen me shouting

at inaminate objects,

cursing them to the depths of hell.

And he croons at me soothingly

holding me to his chest.

My legs dangle uselessly,

my arms hang limply.

I just stare at him,

tears still leaking from

puffed up eyes.

“It’s okay baby.
You’re going to be okay.”

And I stop crying.
I listen to him,

hero-worship leaking from every pore.

I know I shouldn’t

But I believe him anyways.

He’s warm.

He’s listening to me.

Maybe later I’ll realise

that I need more.

That he deserves more.

But for now, this-

this is enough.

 
This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741