Trigger warning: This poem contains mention of self-harm.
I stare at my anxious wrist —
she begs me to let go of her —
I listen to her, calming my rage,
I resist
I resist
I resist.
I try not to feel the pulse —
it makes me realise how I can get rid of this life,
it makes me realise that I’m a dead flower on the branch already
the pulse is there
doing her work,
but little did she know —
I’m tired
I’m tired of life
I’m tired of every day
I’m tired of everything.
I stare at my
delicate and unaware
reddish brown arteries and
bluish veins,
resting beneath my paper-like skin,
branching out from one another
as if there are more possibilities.
one cut can slit those hopeful branches
and my body would happily mourn
on those white sheets —
stained from death
stained from cowardice (they would accuse me of that).
I imagine
a hundred different ways to leave this world
but the only less hurtful is this —
I imagine
a thousand different places to live in this world
but the only less hurtful is the grave —
I imagine
what it would be like
to be free from the burden of existing.
I stare at the idle blade
honed by life,
hungry to set me free
(from myself?).
one hand holding the blade,
another the veins
this is how I’m turned against myself
this is how I’m battling with myself
bloodshed?
or any peace treaty?
Who conquered whom?
and at what cost?
Archita Nayak is a technical writer by profession and poetry keeps her sane when dealing with herself and the world. For her, writing poetry is an act of being honest with herself.
Featured image: Toa Heftiba / Unsplash