every move i make is violent.

i viciously rip my headphones from my pocket,
tear paper from its bindings with clawed fingers.
i toss and turn,
i drool and spit.

people ask why my bones creak
like the rotting foundation of an old house,
why my hands are never clean
no matter how long i wash them.

i keep my mouth shut.
i go about my business.
no one needs to know why
my eyes are never still,
why i jitter and shake.

but there's a thickness in my chest that contorts itself,
twisting around my lungs
and weaving through my ribs.
it threatens to burst into the air,
feeding on the horror onlookers feel
when they see the me that is not human.
the reason why.

i am starved.
i want to feel *****,
to squeeze myself in both hands
and feel my humanity ooze out from between my fingers.
the thickness in my chest grows restless,
and my bones continue to creak.

i remain silent.