I am a teenage wasteland
a room packed to the brim with conflicting emotions
and mixed signals

Each of my thoughts contradict the next
and the last
and I own drawers in dressers
dedicated to broken hearts

The soles of my shoes are worn down
with running through past conversations
and visiting old promises

My clothes are strewn with angry bullet holes
left by words taken far too seriously
and my shoulders often ache
with the pressure to be perfect

I am a teenage wasteland
and my body is tired
with over dramatizations
and unspoken worries

the emotion of love comes far too easily for me
and leaves
all too quickly

-h.w.