i can not make my pain into
pretty words, the way that the world wants.
i do not suffer prettily-
i am not lovely, in my aching,
not a beautiful flower that needs only new soil.
when i am in pain, it is ugly-
the knife does not draw lines across my wrist,
it slashes a hideous scar
and my blood leaks, pulses, drips.
i do not mix my blood with paint,
do not craft masterpieces from my
aching gaping wounds, do not
spit my hurt onto the page.
van gogh, they say,
swallowed yellow paint so that he could feel
that yellow happiness inside of him.
that kind of beautiful poetic suffering,
something metaphoric, maybe, or euphoric voyeuristic at least,
is far beyond me.
i ache, cut, slash, gash, burn break, vomit, sob, hit, smash,
and it is not lovely.
i do not weep. no single tear will ever
make its soulful journey down my cheek.
when i swallow yellow paint it is because
i know that it is poison and i want to feel
the burning hurting tearing destroying poison within me.
i am not a homesick angel, not your
slam poetry fuel, not whatever stupid fucking metaphor comes next.
when i hurt it is painful and it is terrible
and i do not want to hurt prettily.