isn't pretty
isn't happy
and
isn't fun

my december is
losing hair and
coughing until
i'm about to pass
out

my december is
loss of appetite
and aching joints

my december is
heightened anxiety
and sensitivity to
those around me
and their
emotions

my december is
sickness
in more ways
than one

but it is my december
and mine alone

ill throw away my blades this time

they let their sticky humid hands
hold my glitching hologram body
against the scratchy playhouse
walls and drag their clammy
claws where no child should
think to rub all the while
whispering into my vacant ears
how they would beat me and
bite me and cut me and kick me
if anyone were to ever find out
our little game as tapeworm
tears sludged from my sickly
sweet rotting eyesockets and
down my shiny shaking dust
stained cheeks silently over my
cold and closing throat and
when my dad finally ripped the
splintering wooden door across
the sandy shifting floor i was so
pale pink blue i could have been
six hours dead save for my
fracturing porcelain and
plexiglass heart destructive and
bashing and shattering itself
through my frail and brittle
crumbling ribcage whispering to
me how badly my dad would
scream at me for the way we
were playing

Hello,
Poetry.
I see the
fangs between your lines
snap shut to disguise
wrinkles revealing
traumatic speeches
scribbled without care
yet shouted so scared.
Words scarred and slashed with
swords of
insecurity,
blue and red bars slice
the tale you tried to
save for me,
bleeding out stories
through the tears in these
ruled pages,
pour them in the cups
of the audience
so they relate with.
I take just one sip.
I’m already drunk,
cut out my favorite lines,
pasting phrases to my life,
******* away my pain,
rejected in recycling,
cycling confessions,
crying on my recollections,
sponge away my sorrow tears
and squeeze it on the stages.
Claps of the people
start evaporation and
the sensation serves me
confidence to condensate
the ink off my dissertation.
Final salutation,
spotlights off and
goodbye,
Poetry.

my mom doesn't want me. she'd rather no daughter at all than one who is "sick". she says i make her life harder and that she is embarrassed by me. she says she is jealous of "normal kids". i dont blame her, i am too. i hate being "sick". but she didn't phrase it as if she wished i didn't suffer, oh no, she phrased it as if she wished she didnt have me.