One.
My name is Valéry.
I am 31 years old.
I’ve been told I have a nice smile.
Two.
I am 5 foot 9. And a little bit.
I often feel small in places where I should stand tall,
I sometimes take up too much space
To hide the hollow in my spine.
Three.
People used to tell me I was too young, smart, beautiful to be so sad,
Refusing to acknowledge the illness.
They wanted the outgoing, bright girl,
Not recognizing the other side of the same coin.
They loved to see me shine,
Mania on the tip of my tongue,
A cocaine spark in my eye,
Forgetting that a single spark can burn the whole city down.
Four.
The medication keeps the spark in check and sometimes I miss it like an old friend.
Sometimes I get glimpses of it, like a quick breeze of danger
And I wonder
If maybe that’s the real me.
Five.
I’ve been to 43 countries but I’ve learned
You cannot run away from your problems.
As far as your legs will take you,
Your knees will remember the ground.
Six.
I used to like knives.
I’m not allowed to like knives anymore.
The blood never did come out of my favourite sneakers.
Seven.
Now I grow flowers where my scars used to be.
Eight.
My suicide note read:
“They say suicide is selfish, but isn’t it selfish to make me live this way?”
I woke up out of the coma a week later,
But it took me 3 years to realize selfish has nothing to do with it.
Nine.
I have never broken a bone, save almost all of my fingers.
Maybe the universe is trying to remind me
Life is made up of small tragedies.
But we mend.
Ten.
My name is Valéry.
I’ve been told I have a nice smile.
I’ve been told I have a nice smile;
I’m trying to learn to use it more.
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