My skin is dead weight,
Keeping the person inside of me so still.
My tongue, glued to the bottom of my mouth so all I can do is make noise and it means nothing to anyone.
I won't move a muscle
Because it told me if I ever did
It'd come back and **** my family.
And even though they'll never know,
I still pretend they say thankyou everyday.

Whoever writes my obituary is going to say such lovely things.

And no one will ever know what my trauma did to them, or to me.