Content Warning: The following poem contains content and terminology related to suicidal thoughts/actions.
Mannequins are made of wood, and humans of flesh, but what about souls? What cloth do we dress them in?
they tell you that to feel at home in your body
you have to feel that you are worthy
but how can i give worth to a body
that was wrong, wrong, wrong
unworthy of the sunlight
it was born in?
i feel like a wooden man
fumbling through the forest
in search of a soul to swallow
to breathe back life into this brittle thing
to feel content
in a body
made of branches and splinters
longing for warmth
the way
only lost things
can
a person approaches
and i raise my arm at 90 degrees
waving left and right
i can’t tell them about
the hollow cavern in my chest
or the way i shivered
at the sound of their footsteps
wishing mine
would sound
the same
it’s still suicide
when you look at yourself in the mirror
neither a man nor woman
just a twisted thing in between
bricks and sticks piled together
knowing you stole this reflection, too
knowing a mother is looking for her daughter
a father for his son
the dead are only remembered
if they were loved by the living
and when you long to be loved
you kill yourself
to set other people free
but it’s still suicide
if you kill yourself
before they can
maybe then
they’ll have
some respect
for the dead
i breathe out the soul i found on the forest floor
not this one, either
i let it go where it’s meant to go
and be who it’s meant to be
the mirror trembles and shatters
as i rise to my knees
and creak quietly
through the fog
searching the forest
again
