his skin feels so small
it doesn't fit him
he screams and screams
hoping that someone will hear him
and give him a better body
one that fits right
one that's not stained with tears
one that's not scraped and battered
"Don't you love yourself?"
they ask
"God gave you a perfectly good body!"
it's not a matter of love
it's a matter of claustrophobia
it's a matter of screaming until your throat's raw
until you can't do anything else
it's a matter of holding your breath to make it all go away

oh, oh

mother please come back

oh, oh,

someone please notice my silent screams for help

oh,oh
oh,oh

and still the world turns
and still he cries
and still people insist
on calling him the wrong things
and still he is scared
scared and disgusted
not by the body
but by the fact that this body
is his.

spirit week is rapidly approaching
he's somehow both anxious and apathetic
how can he bluff his way through spirit week
when he's been feeling so dead inside recently

everything is boring
he almost misses the times
when he felt broken inside

at least it meant feeling something

he would have a mantra
or write something meaningful
but who would recite it
who would read it
(certainly not him)

ah how twisted is evolution
how twisted is the way
that constant exposure either leaves us numb or hurting

he remembers that day
curled up under the desk
when it felt like his heart
was ripping itself apart
now he knows it was ripping itself out
out of his chest

he misses the days when he could cry

liquor remained necessary,
yet again,
back to the incubators
bottled;
out
to undergo
their little normality.
Bud, proliferate, divide.
From every adult.
Progress.

His breath mingles
with the steam from his coffee.
Across the table
she stirs her tea
remembering the way the words
used to flow so easily
smooth and fast
and perfectly understood.
And how he brick by brick
built a dam
one "sure" and "yeah" and "idc" at a time
leaving her on read for days
which to her seemed an eternity
She used to love him
maybe she still does
yet the feeling of dread
and quiet, damp sadness
is something she cannot bring herself to shove away.
What if, in finding hope,
she unearths some long-forgotten pain?
These days she doesn't cry over him
just thinks of what could've been
if they had been different people.

Why do they call it heartbreak
when it feels more like a toothache,
sourly sweet,
gently throbbing,
overwhelming and unimpressive.
She sits curled up
underneath her desk
her mug forgotten in the microwave
she bit down on something too hard
an old memory of the way he smelled
like strawberries and minty aftershave
or the way his hair fell while he was asleep
and now she has to nurse her injuries
and wait for the pain to subside.
She knew her sweet tooth would leave her here someday
and now instead of tasting moonlight and caramel in her mouth
like she did that night under the bridge
she tastes something sour
bitter and rotting and familiar
and holds herself tighter
wishing & wishing the pain away.

There is so much about you I want to know
Like why you never respond to me anymore
And if you still like me
I would ask
but then that would be cheating
I would tell you
that I miss our long talks about zombie skittles
& true love
& thicc (with two c's) squirrels
but I can't handle rejection
especially from you
so I'll just sit here
writing poetry you'll never see
and watching us slowly fall apart.

I would like to write a poem
about you.
But I can never seem to articulate
the feelings that you give me
I think if I could
some of the magic would be lost
and those sparkles of gold
would only be pieces of forgotten glitter
blown in on the wind
from some second-place school project.
And so I skirt around you
trying to save the wonder
in the wild rose
that could
(who knows?)
be lost if it were placed into captivity.