If I open my mouth to speak
my heart will fall out.
Then my lungs, my intestines
and eventually all my blood
will pile up in front of us.
Please believe me;
it was worse to taste
as I threw it up
than it is to smell now.
Someone ought to clean this mess
that nobody wants to touch,
and it’s my responsibility,
but my hands are shaking too much.
In my dreams I always imagined
a gentle rag to scrub me clean
but even then I knew
no one would hold it for me.
I look down,
at the heap of my soul.
don’t want to but
I look up anyway
at your burdened eyes.
Then I look down again,
and shame blows me a kiss.
I can’t live with my guts on the floor,
and you can’t give them back,
so next time you want to say
“How are you?”
Please don’t ask.
Author’s Note:
I wrote this piece when I was struggling with self-harm. More than that, I think my greatest struggle was reaching out for help, which I think that the desperation in this poem emphasizes. I felt this great shame around opening up about my feelings, so I can’t quite say I wanted to, but I would take any opportunity to, as long as it was given. I shunned these opportunities, as is said in this poem, to avoid the inevitable vulnerability I would force myself into.
Mari Nowicki | 15 | Chicago, IL | @mariariariari2 on TikTok
