There's a kid in my class,
who sits in the back, with skin
like fresh coffee,
and caramel lips.

He's alone every day, sitting by himself,
eating meals his father made for him,
(that's if he eats that day, that is.)
I see him go to the toilet after he eats.
He comes out looking paler,
sicker,
sadder.
Like the food had devoured him,
turning him on his head,
chewing him limb by limb, leaving
him a sobbing mess on the bathroom floor.
His eyes mist over but he wipes them,
as he stares at a gaggle of girls,
they're laughing.
Not at him,
but happily within their group.

He isn't happy and I wish he was.
I wish he would smile.
Just once.

I haven't seen him do that since Monday,
when a boy asked him where he got his coat from,
he smiled and replied; "My mum bought me it from the shop over in town, next to the hairdressers."

His voice was soft
and empty.
It hollowed as he spoke,
becoming a ghost in the class, his smile a touch of silk,
his hands a wavering dove.

But he stopped himself after that,
stared at the ground, muttering about his foolishness.
His utter stupidity at being anything.
"My mum got me it?" he says,
scoffing.
Disgusted at himself.

I don't see why.

His hair is coiled, bouncing with his attempts to brush it,
his teeth an off-white, slightly crooked,
his personality spilling with the looks he gives to
kind passers-by.
To people like me, who
don't know how to
help the boy who throws up every day because he thinks he's fat,
or the boy who curses himself out for speaking to someone,
or the boy who simply cannot bear the sound of his own voice.

Muffled by the depression and anxiety wrapped around him.

But he's fine.

He's a boy.

Manly and strong,

that's what his parents tell him, anyway.
'My big strong lad!" his father smiles, as he enters the room,
kissing his cheek.
His parents adore him,
He can't seem to adore himself.
He doesn't see what we see.
A student, who works hard,
loves music,
beautiful in every way.

He see's an ogre.
A revolting piece of human flesh,
too round,
too long,
too black.
Too anything.
He wants to be nothing,
a minuscule morsel.

He wants to stay alone in the back of the class,
and chip away at the voice of silk,
the soft hollow melody of his throat.


He stamps on his doves.
Killing them in one.