We are empty caskets. Broken Surgery tools. A banned book in a school library. We are backpacks with busted straps attempting to hold other people's problems while lacking support. Teaching our arms to only hold onto things we can complain about.

We become a teenagers forgotten toy. Under a bed and covered in dust. Our hands are winter gloves covered in holes. Hearts bleeding to find a home. Our bodies play one hit wonders with low batteries in a empty prison cell. We are prisoners of our own thoughts.

Scribbling love poems into our rib cages in hope that someone will open us up, and understand the language these lips can't speak. That the rose bouquet of bones in your body will let go of it's thorns so you know pain isn't always your fault.

Loneliness exists in lost socks behind the dryer. Let it stay there. Find the symmetry in your stem and bloom out of the depression of ruined soil. You are a buried treasure. Let them find you where you are. Snuggled up in your excellence.