Patrick Gauthier likes to paint, draw, take pictures, and write. He never understood why and never could take his art too seriously. Instagram: @gauthier8430 Facebook: Patrick Gauthier
The Root of Things Poetry by Erin Mullens CW: Mental Health & Disturbing Content (Disturbing Imagery)
With a knife sharpened by years of crying alone I reach inside the belly of myself. I rip it open And see all of my intestines splayed on the floor. Look, there are all the parasites inside of me The ones that I buried deep inside of my body Because I was scared if they saw the light of day They would grow so strong they’d destroy me.
I reach out a shaking finger. I touch the darkness. It shapes around me, cold and wet and slimy And I feel bile rising inside of my throat. There is Anger, a fire with heat that makes one wince Standing resolutely, he refuses to back down. There is Fear, like a chasing tunnel wind He leaves one shaken and shivering, cold and empty. There is Disappointment. He has a face like mine. He asks me if I have made the best of my life Or maybe, if I could do it over again, would it be better?
I fix my eyes upon the plaintive Disappointment. My eyes start to sting, as if touched by lemon juice And my heart beat starts to crescendo But I do not look away. I am tired of running. Anger dances around my shoulders Singeing the skin, leaving red rawness in the flesh. Fear touches the bruises, mutilates the skin I know I will come away looking different.
Eventually they tire of the standoff. They get antsy, start walking around Start crawling peacefully over my body. I get to witness every inch of them Every nook and cranny, every variation As they shift in and out of a million forms. Tentatively, I explore the feelings That run through my veins like a string Pulling me in this direction or that I start to move with the darkness Closing my eyes, reaching out my hands I dance with the sadness inside of me.
I open my eyes, and I see bursts of smoke As every single feeling turns to ash. I touch their remains, in wonder, watching them Lose all their power over me. Then a burst of soft wind blows through And the ash reforms in the shape of a butterfly.
Three sparkling little butterflies Perched on the edge of my fingers Love, hope, and happiness. They were always inside of me But when I buried the darkness I condemned them to a cold grave. Only once I had cut myself open And let the bloody darkness swirl Could I finally see the light in me.
Erin Mullens is an American student who is currently studying in Seoul, South Korea. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading romance novels and hiking in the woods. Instagram: @moonchildisuhgood