This poem will make paper swans out of your discarded suicide notes

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,

Here ⁣
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.

My poems by Swati barik