I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn’t.
Don’t tell me that I’m normal and that I’m okay.
Take me to a forest and let me hear the trees rustle in the wind.
Don’t take me to the doctors and tell me when my next appointment is.
Let me cry in your arms until I fall asleep knowing you are there.
Don’t feed me lies about and keeping your head above water.
Take me to the park and feed the ducks with me like I did when I was a little girl.
Don’t nod and smile and hold back the tears in your eyes.
Please, just love me.
Just had a sudden flashback: I was back in hospital in the chair by the window I had been sat in all day. I hadn’t spoken a word since I got there a week ago. Then a girl whose name I forgot came to the window. It started to rain and she rushed to put her hand out the window to feel the rain on her fingers. You do weird things when you’ve been locked on a psych unit for two weeks. It looked freeing.
But if a mirror ever makes
you should know
that it does