An Ode To Mental Health Professionals
We live with our chests open,
letting the world put its hands
all over our hearts.
Our heartstrings sound
like a harp, the music never once stops.
This isn’t about love, this
is about living.
Today I tripped over my
every word, told them I don’t
get panicked in social situations
while my heart was a jackrabbit
in my chest telling me to run.
I showed them all of my scars,
made jokes about wanting
to die because it’s easier
to pretend to laugh than admit
to yourself you’re that far gone.
I am that far gone.
There’s no truth in hiding it,
the bruising around my heart
tells them everything.
If they still don’t believe me,
let them look inside my wrist.
Let them take out the stones
I buried there so many times
because something was gaping,
and it was the only thing
that could weigh me down.
Let them cut into my skull
and see the warning signs
on every wall, I’ve been painting
my mind the colour of grim
for months now so nobody
could see it without a knife.
They have a knife,
they call it a different name
but they have a knife.
I live every day on the operating table.
By A. Davida Jane
A. Davida Jane is a writer and student from Wellington, New Zealand who studies English Literature and Classics. She spends most of her time around words, from poetry, novels and essays to working in a bookstore, and can’t imagine ever not writing. Find more of her writing at wefragilehumans.tumblr.com