will they ever see the blue in me

people laughed at my grief.

it wasn’t easy.

was the sight of seeing me suffer funny enough?

i don’t think so, it was rough

last night I cut my hair six inches shorter

i think it’s better than to dig six feet under

now i scratched my skin to spell the words ‘stop’

before I could throw myself from the rooftop

should I starve myself to skinny bones?

so I could fit into their tiny perception of unknowns

didn’t they notice? couldn’t they?

i was fading to a shade darker

will they ever see the blue in me?

or will it be too late to paint me back from who i was?

will they laugh their grief away when i, a family, die?


Yesterday, as I was going through my notes on my laptop, I come across this poem I wrote 2 years ago. I probably wrote this when I was on the early days of grief from the love I’ve lost, when no one around me took my grief as a serious thing, when I should’ve had support but received laughs instead, when they should have just stayed silent while I struggle but they didn’t.

Analysis:

people laughed at my grief.

it wasn’t easy.

was the sight of seeing me suffer funny enough?

i don’t think so, it was rough

I

In these first four lines, the words I used were particular to what I was feeling, no metaphors, no rose-colored lines, just raw expressions. Navigating through those days wasn’t easy, it was a rough journey no one knows how long or where the destination is or whether it even has one.

That time, I told myself, ‘I don’t think people really care or even think about other’s feelings as long as they remain above the uncertain things and unpleasant feelings.’

Their attempt to make things lighter than how it should be never made my suffering less heavy. I remember walking out many times as the conversations starts becoming uncomfortable, or I must say when they start talking and joking about what happened, as if suicide is some sort of thing to laugh about. And that I think is the most insensitive thing to do.

last night I cut my hair six inches shorter

i think it’s better than to dig six feet under

now i scratched my skin to spell the words ‘stop’

before I could throw myself from the rooftop

should I starve myself to skinny bones?

so I could fit into their tiny perception of unknowns

II

The tragedy that has happened before, eventually led me to my own misery. There were days I blamed myself, days I thought I should’ve been the one to disappear. I had those intrusive self-destruct thoughts most of the time that sometimes becomes too loud and deafening I needed to do something to stop it. Let’s say, alternatives.

didn’t they notice? couldn’t they?

i was fading to a shade darker

will they ever see the blue in me?

or will it be too late to paint me back from who i was?

will they laugh their grief away when i, a family, die?

III

These final five lines were full of questions. I needed them to at least see that I was struggling. Just simply see. See before it’s too late.

That’s it. Now, I can finally say I’m better and that I’ve recovered so much. I guess that’s why writing this analysis isn’t difficult because I have overcome those times. That’s why reading this again didn’t make my heart so heavy anymore. I’m glad.

Check these out…

on sylv­ia plath, mental health and sad poetry

getting through the day when you’re down in the depression pit

as a deep diver, i’m now afraid of depths

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