54. Poppy Wells

54

Poppy Wells

T here were holes inside my head.

Fractures on my bones.

Scars on my skin.

Little white lines.

Frail little limbs.

A canvas of purple splotches.

Big and round.

Fading laughter.

A sound so foreign now.

I wondered when I’d hear it again

or if I lost the very part of me

who could still find hope

in the misery of me.

Little white weighing scales,

now gray around the edges,

stared up at me with a weighted gaze.

Feet marks engraved.

A sign of love.

Of use.

Of a girl who was losing

a battle with her mind.

The noises in my head,

they screamed so loud.

And it made me think,

of everything I was,

and everything I was not.

Even after it all,

I still stepped on those scales,

and saw that number

staring back at me with a frown.

You’re too big, Poppy.

I thought you loved me, Poppy.

You can go one more day, Poppy.

Stick to the plan, Poppy.

Stop being lazy, Poppy.

Poppy.

Poppy.

Poppy.

The hairs on my neck cowered as my fingers drew near.

A sea of little red lies

bleeding from my fingertips

as I scratched away

every imperfection,

every error,

every piece of me,

that was out of place.

My thoughts calmed.

My chest settled.

That beating inside me slowed

because it knew

I was erasing myself

little by little,

until all that would exist

was my little gray bones.

Who knew,

ghosts could be

so

l

o

u

d.