• Where Is Teal?


    I was fifteen years old.  It was 2:00 am.  Like usual, I had insomnia.  The rest of the house was asleep.  They knew ‘something was wrong with me’.  I had been cutting myself for years by then and at this point; no one knew what to do with me.  My only friend lived in another state.  I was lucky to see her once a year.  I was ‘different’.  I had painted my walls dark blue, with violent light blue splashes flung across them.  I listened to Sarah McLachlan on repeat.  I was so sensitive that I felt my connection with all life.  I felt the cruelty of unconsciousness in the world and the damage it was doing, but could not name it yet as the monster I was up against.  I dreamed of what it was like to die.  By that point, I had figured out every way I could kill myself if I ever made the choice.  I was living a double life.  I did not relate to anyone.  I had no sense of belonging.  I felt like I lived my life behind a prison of glass, where I could see out and no one could see in.  It was like being in my own personal hell.  The sense of aloneness was so thick; it crushed its way through my bone marrow.  The emptiness and absence in that feeling was like a poison.  I needed to get out of it or I needed to get it out of me.  I was alone in the silence of the house that night.  I took out my pen and I wrote because there was no other way to bleed myself of that feeling, save cutting, which I was desperate to stop.  I wrote about this isolated hell inside myself…


    A plead as simple as bleeding,

    To be free of the warm veins,

    forged for survival.

    Where?

    Directions are lost,

    Obscured by wind and stinging soot

    Pulled relentlessly from the earth,

    No longer stable and turning black.

    Where?

    Is it the prison of it ,

    That shapes you the most?

    Or the shapelessness of your keepers?

    Reality is scarcely a fossil here

    Where?

    The chemical blood, smeared on forearm and thigh…

    It brings out the best in us.

    Bravery’s way of finding us, where mercy would not

    And honor’s taste, heavy on a bitten lip that will never speak of this again.

     Where?

    I am the only soul here,

    The only thing living, besides molten,

    That flows in slow, spitting rivers, breathed in by nostril and pore.

    A living cadaver, in skin like wax that never melts.

    As cold as the idea of this being not where I belong

    or what I deserve,

    has become.

    Where?

    The path of devastation, leads you in circles they say.

    Back to the same Iron,

    The same brand.

    The same vision every way you see it.

    You are a slave.

    But the tears don’t come beyond the thousand degree heat, and the way it’s scarcely felt now, when it burns me.

    Where?

    Against what bones still un fragmented, and what flesh still un torn,

    Fear is a rising tide.

    The only thing I fear is fear it’s self.

    It is the only thing telling me, life is not like this for any soul but mine.

    But any love they drip to me will fall like blood in the end…

    No way to take it in,

    Once it’s outside you