Hagintha Woods

Hark!
Do you hear them?

Here they come, in their droves,
Knocking at my door,
Sparkling Christmas lights draped over one arm,
Surgical knife tucked in the sleeve of the other.
Unfolding me-
Their newest project,
Planting candles in the creaking sunbeams of my sagging ribs
With the conviction of someone making a statement.
I was here. I changed this land.
I am dimly reminded of how they stabbed their flag into the moon,
Proud and celebratory.
Whether because of amusement or a simple lack of care,
I fail to remind them that I was always mine.

They grasp my hand,
Light sparking from their eyes,
Warmth charring my flesh as they glow,
Promising that they will save me.
Promising to make me shine too.

But light doesn’t bring brightness,
Concentrating the darkness instead into
A strong, flickering shadow that
Lurks and whispers.
They don’t tell me that having a high means that
There must be a low, crashing and cold,
That the jolt upon crashing into the ground is never as shocking as
When I’ve just been teetering on the edge of a cliff-
Fingers just an inch away from brushing the sky.

It’s always just the wrong type of light.
They bring surgical lights, disco lights,
Crack me open to form a window.
All the while cooing “Aren’t you better now?”
All the while horrified when the answer is no.

Their lights may have helped them no longer fear every corner,
But they barely brighten my darkness,
Fireflies laughably darting back and forth within
A wide, gaping maw of nothing.
They merely make the air a little more bearable,
A little less suffocating,
Make me think that my blackness can be close to tolerable
If I only keep the light on,
Leaving me a clutching mess
Not only afraid of the dark but
Addicted to the light.

They assume they know my depths just because they’ve once been
Plunged down their own.
They are both dark and deep,
But both a sword and noose are deadly,
And a shield only stops one.
They hold out an antidote,
Bemoan the pain and numbness of the poison that ailed them,
But my darkness takes the form of a guillotine,
And even if I reach out-
I no longer have the hands to receive their ‘gift’.

Only blood, flowing out my wrists.
Only words, flowing out my lips.

But they only nod at the blood and bring out more lights,
Only hear the words that are ‘help’ and ‘me’.

I’m not saying it didn’t save them.
I’m saying it won’t save me.

They want to help me,
But they do not trust that I know my crevices.
Stringing up fluorescent lights in me only illuminates the guillotine as
It slices through the air.
I am still helpless,
But now I can see it coming,
Every
Inch
Of
The
Way.

…
I would strip the lights down,
But it wouldn’t be long before
The next flock arrives once more,
Eyes determined and hands already
Stretching.

So I sit in resignation,
Too tired with my own monster to fight theirs too,
Parts too clinically separated and isolated under their previous dissections that I cannot remember
How to pull myself together.
Under the harsh light that emblazons every visceral detail,
I watch the blood ooze,
Grasp the antidote they left in my teeth,
Choke it down like a shot of liqueur.

I hear “Congratulations”, feel pats on my back.
They welcome me into their circle even as they leave,
Designating me as nothing more than a success.
Finally left alone,
I lean back against the chair,
Stare up at the ceiling,
Feel the liquid seep and spread.

I grow numb,
Focus on taking a single futile breath,
Even as I see the glint of the sharp edge fall.