My teacher in anatomy forgot to tell me
that my body is too small to contain
all the crumbled dreams and promises,
the bits of a failing heart, the torn
maps of places once called home,
and that my bones are too fragile
to carry the weight of depression,
and that my skin is too thin
to try to hide the noise inside
every time I break into pieces,
and that my lungs are too weak
to breathe too much air
so that I will not get drowned.