It's funny
You never hear a healed person
Wish they were sick again
Tales of times of disease
Are never told with nostalgia but with
Brave indifference
And to tell you I miss being sick
Would be like saying
The Mona Lisa was just a painting
I miss my ribs
Hard lines on my chest
Ladder rungs
That led me to the stars
And beyond
I miss my hip bones
The valley between them
My stomach was a cavern I could store anything in
Because it never got filled
My blood never got to racing
It barely moved at all
The butterflies I felt for you
Starved to death
And I devoured them to stay alive
They left behind the impossible
Inescapable
Space where a healthy body should be
And I miss my collarbone
Jutting out from my skin
Like the harsh edge of a cliff
Me
The daring tightrope walker
Stumbling dangerously close
To the drop off
Drunk on Splenda water and
The knowledge that I was indestructible
A tightrope walker lighter than air could never fall
Or get carried off in the wind
Only drown in the waters down below
And I did
I can honestly say that I miss being sick
But I don't miss dying
A/N It's a rough draft, so any and all suggestions are welcome. Thanks for reading! (even though it's crap)
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Please, Disregard
PoetryAn untold story from a misplaced generation, this is teen angst at its finest. These the writings of The Suicide Notebook, or how I'd imagine them to be. It's mostly going to be in poetry form, slam or rhyming. Keep in mind that slam poetry sounds a...
