Hiding under that mattress
isn't getting you anywhere.
You can dream of foreign countries
but your family won't be rushing to see you
to tell you they love you
and miss you.
Somewhere pressed between **** and
humidity,
your lungs transparent grow moss
and your throat hurts from not screaming.
Soon it's two below
(as it is surely supposed to be)
and your young mind hates it.
Your esophagus has become
entirely a forest
abandoned
for the winter.
The scariest thing is not knowing
if your population will retain
its original numbers.
The trees around you can't hold you
and the cliff you're on
is not going to carry you home.
"You have your own inside you, be it for yourself,"
but that doesn't help.
It was something you loved but the stilts
of support splintered.
Your mattress reeks of ****.
Your lungs of cushion collapse.
Your cliff has crumbled
and your ashes are held in the
eyes of your old pals,
but they become the coastal sand.