This article is an instalment of MUSE Magazine’s Mental Health Theme week, taking place from October 25th to October 30th, 2021.


Trigger Warning: This article contains discussions of mental health, mental illness, and suicide, which may be a trigger for some readers. 
Disclaimer: The author wants to acknowledge and make it known that these are their personal experiences. The author would like to recognize that other people have other experiences and that no two people are the same.

The following poems are excerpts from Sarah Towers’ poetry collection Movements in Cotton Candy Tar


If I was screaming,
I would take pleasure in my lonely ears,
in the reality I live,
that is so far from grounded.
If I am surrounding people,
I can wail like a dove,
I can sing like a banshee,
and I keep them stunned.
I shriek in desire,
deepening pulls toward notice,
and it is stunning.

April 17th, 2021



People, persons, my selves each passing
with my skin both pasty and plastic,
And questionable sensations
that doubt pain and calmness.
Raising one,
and lowering the other,
with tasteless food that proves
and people,
so flat and underdeveloped,
interacting sporadically with predictions,
hammering into my head,
all of it,
how done and tragic my state is.

Though underfed and in terror,
fuzzy and thick and wrapped in cellophane,
this is the world as it is presented to me.
Meaning it is real,
in one way.

July 27th, 2021



She always knows what to wear,
and does not accept the feelings
of one’s self-deprivation,
that can halt the invitations of new energies.
Shut up and be her.
Empty but so whole presenting,
lapse into her.
She is affecting and ineffective.
The anger, indifference,
I am her.
I have been twice.
She is decisive.

March 2020 



Like a corpse
I have been carrying this body,
this person,
heavily along with me.
I am wearing my own corpse
and wonder,
where my connection to this reality
has gone.

The sun breaks through clouds,
and I do not want to see those from
my past life,
as they interact with a girl long dead.

I was killed last year
in that moment,
as he took the life from me,
as he tread my body like it was his.

Civilizer, he killed me.
He infected me.
Nationalized himself,
I left with a dead body,
and it keeps dragging
like a blanket on the dirt,
attached to my lungs,
getting caught on rocks, roots
branches stick at it,
start to tear away her.

Civilizer, I escaped you,
but you kept your tabs.
I retreated, and you took land
I once danced on.

Fuck that,
I sat confined.
Handcuffed to a corpse,
dragging a lifeless being through mud,
over hills,
trying to prove to others
that what I towed,
Was still who they knew.

I don’t want to be with
those who knew my corpse.
This weight, I see it decomposing
and spring struggles to pull it into the ground.
Am I to breathe it back in,
as pollen?
Hurt my lungs in a new way,
have it enter my bloodstream again,
this time forcefully,

I pray on a four leaf clover,
for the green of spring to pull
my body into the ground.
Unlock me from this false character,
do not let me breathe in the dust
of a body once alive and well.
Let me feel sun on fresh skin,
in new eyes,
love in a new soul.
And my ancestors will shade me from
burns, and rain, with a four leaf clover,
as I walk delicately,
into a world that hasn’t met me yet.

March 2020

Header Image Source: The Other Press, “Dissociative Disorders”
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