They say we're the lucky ones and you scoff But they're right; We are the lucky ones.
The only hatred we face is from ourselves Coating our frontal lobes and sticking Dripping sickly sweet like honey down our throats Encasing our vocal chords Rotting us from the inside out.
The only hunger we face is self-inflicted Fingers itching Stomachs protesting Disgust crawling over our skin and burrowing further into our flesh Taking root making itself comfortable.
We don't live in war-torn countries Our scars should be from skinned knees and appendectomies. Our bodies are littered with something far more sinister; Shame takes the form of long sleeved shirts in summer.
We are the lucky ones. We seem unwilling to accept that.