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