Paper swans out of your discarded suicide notes by Swati Barik

My Poems will make paper swans

My mother asks me why do I ⁣ Give my poems names ⁣ Like wheelchair, a crutch, ⁣ an inhaler⁣ A one bedroom beating heart⁣ Why can’t i call them ⁣ something prettier, softer, ⁣ less sick and more ⁣ alive or simple literary devices that carry my sad ⁣ around when it gets bored inside ⁣ It’s home, or when restlessness locks itself out of my mind,⁣ It doesn’t happen often⁣ But it happens. ⁣ ⁣ What she means to ask ⁣ But is too afraid to is⁣ Can you not put yourself on display ⁣like that? ⁣ You’re drawing the wrong crowd. ⁣ Most of the days i sneer at them,⁣ The questions i mean. ⁣ Or the crowd ⁣ ( depends on what day it is)⁣ A girl gone feral is a girl alone⁣ But today is a question mark⁣ Shaped freckle resting in the crook of my arm with the IV needle⁣ And time is throwing rocks at my window, so before the tapping stops ⁣ Let me tell you that this poem right here, is a gas mask ⁣ A tiny piece of tech miracle A small rebellion against death’s tyranny, ⁣ ⁣ This poem will make paper swans out of your discarded suicide notes and teach them how to fly so that your friends can find you on time, ⁣ ⁣ This poem thinks you’re beautiful ⁣ Even on the days you don’t wash your hair or shower because inside the blanket is a dark you feel safe in,⁣ ⁣ This poem will say i love you back ⁣ Exactly seventy-three times and will not be afraid to hold your hand in dimly lit parking lots, ⁣ ⁣ This poem will not cancel plans, ⁣ This poem thinks love is coming,⁣ is just around the corner and is one call away. This poem will dial the number.⁣ ⁣ This poem will help you ⁣ on days medicine will fall short,⁣ ⁣ On the days you’re the only person In your one-bedroom beating heart ⁣ And the walls start to close in on you This poem will be there to paint the cabinets yellow, it’ll let the sunshine in,⁣ ⁣ This poem will kiss you behind the ear and rub that spot on your back you can’t quite reach when you’re nauseous This poem will love you, unconditionally.⁣ ⁣ Here ⁣ mom,⁣ If it still doesn’t sound pretty Think of it like like this This poem is just Another reason to go on living In a long list of reasons For one more day ⁣ at least.


by Swati barik

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