Dark Heart and Dirty Fingers

I must warn you: today was not pretty. Writing a warning label never appealed to me. It seemed silly. However, this post might need that. You could possibly be triggered by this poem.

My heart is hurting so much although talking to my mother and being helped by two dear friends was very beneficial. Thus, totally explaining everything is too much. Here is a poem instead. It is nothing fancy or polished. It simply comes from my raw state of being.

Dark Heart and Dirty Fingers

 

“Average.”

That is how she labeled my weight.

Not heavy, not petite – average.

I always hated that word.

 

Last night was the first all-nighter I ever pulled.

Well, that might not be true.

Perhaps those 15 minutes counted as something.

My head at least rested on my pillow from 7:45 until 8:00.

It arose as full of swirling storm clouds as it had fallen.

 

The darkness that creeps through my veins

And invades the corners of my heart –

It was different.

Lighter, almost, as if not as determined to etch out my life.

That made it even more fearsome.

 

Noodles, mushrooms, tofu, a splash of ginger soy sauce,

Sesame buns oozing out sweet liquid onto my waiting tongue.

While life crams plans into my path,

I cram food into my throat,

Hating myself with each mouthful.

 

After the dinner, my pink dress flowing in the wind,

I drifted into the library, determined to get work done.

My fingers were sure busy.

They itched for my attention and pleaded for a response.

Finally, I listened and crammed them into the back of my throat,

Standing over the white bowl,

Listening to the sound of my misery wash away.

 

Yet, I cannot flush away my hurt,

The sorrow that ever drips from my eyes seems to remain permanent.

The only escape can occur after I finish the plans of farewell.

Taking that step of planning was almost more frightening than thinking of killing myself.

 

How would I say goodbye?

That is a chilling thought.

What would they remember after I was gone?

Anything more than my mourning heart that never ceased crying out for help

And sticky fingers that grabbed each food in sight, mentally or physically?

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4 thoughts on “Dark Heart and Dirty Fingers

  1. MEM says:

    And dear Miss Rose with Thorns,
    Here is a poem for you – not fancy, not polished.

    “Beautiful”

    Your sweet toes, never in socks.
    Your darling fingers, seeking to explore.
    Your “hellos” to every stranger.
    Beautiful.

    Enjoying school, reading a book,
    Or a million pages.
    Trying to understand math,
    Continuing on.
    Beautiful.

    Dancing on stage, singing with glee.
    A solo or two or three.
    Costumes, bright lights, character roles.
    Beautiful.

    Anxiety, fear, depression.
    Eating disorder, nightmarish dreams.
    Medicine bottles, calendar of appointments.
    Resilient.

    Recovery, battling back.
    Strong today. Weak tomorrow.
    Stronger again.
    The light shines in the darkness.
    And the darkness cannot overcome it.
    Beautiful rose with thorns.

  2. I don’t know how to help you feel better, but please know someone from halfway ’round the world cares.

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