Willow Needs Help

12

Summer Wine | Nancy Sinatra & Lee Hazelwood
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BATHTIME
A POEM BY WILLOW SINCLAIR

THE GENTLE water in the bathtub, once dressed in tender,
turned into a grotesque bloody scene.
What was left on the floor was our bonny razor,
which was the only thing that was clean.

The bathtub; something we were fond of as youngsters,
turned into an outlet for us to escape as teenagers.

The razor has set us free from this prison that had suffocated us; won the game that is living.
At last we are officially in heaven, and for once, we are finally breathing.

No one said absolving yourself is a crime.
So therefore, I am indebted to my younger self, for making me love Bathtime.

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My stubborn adolescent mind has finally gotten treatment, it was empty and vacant, devoided of painful memories. It is now filled with poetic and lyrical ideas of self-hatred. Writing has always been my escape from my freak show of a home, whether if I'm composing something devastating or joyus, it always makes me feel better. The invisible heavy damage on my heart leaves like bewitching wizardry when I write about my feelings. Writing about self-hatred and my inner thoughts of physical or internal death was much better than moping around all day on my bed, thinking about what that beast did to me.

I was sitting on my bed in all my destructed prestigue, my notebook was on the edge of it. My black pen was in my right hand while my left supported the book of pretentious words and teenage angst. My body drowned amongst the sympathy of the bed. I've been going through the same routine for a while; Write poetry/short stories on my bed while I absorb and digest the everlasting serene of my room. I've never realised how peaceful staying in my room could be, let alone writing in the comfort of my bed. I never ever want to leave.

Ever.

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WILLOW NEEDS HELP
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"What's up with your wrist?" Austin looked up from his phone, "Why is like... bandadged up?"

The living room shivered in the crisp reposeful hands of the air-conditioner. I wrap my arms around myself as the white oversized sweater I was wearing enveloped my body - the thing I despised the most. My back leaned against the couch as I turned over to look at Austin who was unfortunately, to my dismay, sitting next to me.

"I..." I started before zoning out into the distance, thinking of an excuse.

Austin raised his eyebrows, emphasising his curiosity.

"I got a rash." I quickly say, "It's really red... so I bandaged it up."

Austin tilted his head over, "You did? I'm sure I would've noticed... Where did you even get those bandages from?"

I put my hand on the side of my lips before whispering, "From Liam's room."

Austin chuckled, "Pfttt. Will, he's gonna kill you."

"Like being his sister doesn't already feel like death?" I retorted while rolling my eyes, to which made Austin chuckle more.

"So... how are you feeling? You know, after fainting and stuff." Austin asked out of the blue.