Sarah Bellum Mental

Sarah Bellum Mental

is a Write About Now virtual poet and originally from Chicago, Illinois now living in Houston, TX. She focuses her poetry on blended families and what the word family means to someone that fought for everything she’s gotten. She also covers topics of self-harm, molestation, rape, consent, Erotica, child abuse, and more in her poems. She looks to give a voice to those too scared to speak of what they’ve been through. To provide light in the darkness of living life at times.

Dodo Bird Death

Sometimes I begin just so I can end.

I mean, I begin so I can find endings.

I use humor and coat it with every word I say
so no one gets concerned about me
they don’t call the coroner on me
expecting someone to hit the floor
my pale skin an abalone white
all pale but not poetically so
not Snow White so.

I don’t know if knowing my grandmothers
survived depression and suicide attempts
fuels me or adds water to my flames
culls my movements to mere
glimmers of light, like starlight
on a moonless night
and I look up at the skies
and wonder if grandma,
did you get to escape
your fate and are there
birds, trees, flowers
you can tend where
you are right now?

Or, are you perpetually stuck
on this plane of existence
but I can never feel you}
sometimes I can sense
something and I know
it’s not either of you
unless it’s protecting me.

I don’t think an angel will stop me
from doing something foolish
because I’ve had every intention
of hurting myself without even
having a second thought
that was my mission
until I see bloodied knuckles
or a cuticle torn so perfectly.

I bleed onto the sheets
and the blood turns brown
staring up at me as if to say,
you knew this would happen,
didn’t you?

I say no, lie as my teeth
crowd my gums so close
floss can never enter them
each lie drawing
my teeth closer together.

It’s a habitual pattern I can’t seem
to shake, and it seems like
just anxiety or nervousness
which I’ll admit
I do it more when my mind
is preoccupied
running like a car that has
no brakes, and I keep pumping them
and keep hearing my mother
that she’ll drive us all
into this fucking building
and kill us all,
just watch her.

I recount these stories
and people laugh
and it makes me uncomfortable
because I’m supposed to laugh
so a chuckle throttles my throat
and I want to cry
but I can’t because
I’m a woman made from men
and very few women in my life
and men don’t cry
so neither do I.

I make beginnings
so that I can end.

I mean so that I can find
endings and I’m lucky enough
to be stuck in the middle of it all
still surviving while screaming
at the moonless sky
why did my genes
have to make mental hygiene
such a difficult thing?

I swear sometimes,
I wish I was one of those birds
that looked up into the falling water
and could drown just by
staring up at the sky.

I remember that beauty
in the middle
my eyes have been blind
but I can still find it.


I let the air
cool off the heat
I created as the home
becomes an urn
and I debate
becoming ash
within it.

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