I am held by a piece of string hung in the dark

You can’t even see how thin I am

You can’t find the scissors in the room

to cut your arts and crafts because my sister hides them

She hides them so I don’t do anything bad to myself


I kind of have a history with sharp objects

When I was 9 I pulled a knife from the drawer and told my mom I was going to kill myself

I had never seen anything explode before 

The clock ticked and broke silence 

and we all went loud with it

And I haven’t heard the same desperate screeches 

I think they went inside me 

Instead of the knife 


But like a knife, the screeches have carved around

and rooted out my emotions

Told me I didn’t need happiness

Told me I didn’t need anger

Or fear or my pride 

And still, 


It even took sadness from me 

You can’t see how thin I am 


I find comfort in bad days 

or little outbursts of anger 

Little exhibitions of emotion keep me going 

telling me that the string is still hung in the dark


And I just have to make my way through the shadowed room

And live by holding myself up and stop relying on the thinness of frayed threads

Without worrying about getting caught on this string and remaining stagnant

or thinking “maybe this is the time I burst the delicate tension holding me"

Because when the string drifts to the floor

I am afraid nothing will be keeping me up anymore


The string is hope for the future

a world without dark rooms, that is what holds me 

If only someone could turn on the lights in here 

So I could see how to untangle these knots in the string

 and support myself

But I’m afraid of seeing how thin I am

I am afraid of seeing that the hope that holds me

The hope I hold onto

Is too thin

This poem is about: 


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