Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.


n. an imaginary interview with an old photo of yourself
Me: Look how your bones bend skin
the way each rib rises to the surface,
the horrific simplicity of starvation.
Me: Day breaks across me
like glass, my frame scraped
clean of calories.
Me: You will regret the ruins
you are building, The sallow skin,
the carefully crafted sorrow.
Me: They misunderstand me: mothers, ministers,
men who wink when I walk by.
I am rupture, I am rift. I am revolution.
Me: You will shatter into shrapnel
wound everyone around you. You will spend
years pulling splinters from beneath your skin.
Me: I have made a masterpiece of sorrow.
I am canvas stretched over bone. Here the azure hue
of anguish, there a pale green tinge of shame.
Me: You have hung yourself in a gallery of grief.
You’ve mistaken moldering for masterpiece.
Me: I am splinter, I am rubble, I am sculpting
glory from grief.
Bridget Gage-Dixon spends her days cajoling other people’s teenagers to read great books and utilize proper grammar, and in a small house in the woods she can often be found at her computer agonizing over word choice. Her work has appeared in several journals, including Poet Lore, The New York Quarterly, and The Cortland Review.

Categories: Mental Health, Poetry, Themed

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