Tuesday, November 3, 2009
lies and other stories
The first thing you should know about me is that I am a sham.
I am a social work student preaching hope and self-care, who has razorblades in her bag and pink and white scars beneath her sleeves. If you talk about food i will join in but it's all just in theory; if you offered it to me I would pretend to nibble at it then throw it away when you weren't looking. If you ask me how I'm doing, I'll smile and tell you how well things are going, even though once I finally dragged myself out of bed that morning I spent the entire day thinking the solution to every problem on earth is just for me to die. I pass in all my homework on time, but usually it takes tears and blood to get through it, and if I'm late for work it's probably because I had to squeeze in that run on the treadmill, or because I felt faint and finally ate something, only to decide it needed to be purged. But really I'm fine, I have a future in front of me if I could just figure out how to get there and how to live and maybe if I could just be someone else and not this split person who is great! to the outside world, and despairing when she's alone, and so confused about what's underneath it all that she tries to write the truth in scars and bones.
The Untrustworthy Speaker
Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.
I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.
It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-
I never see myself.
Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand.
That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends . . .
In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.
When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.
If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When I living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.
That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind