Photo by Ashkan Forouzani on Unsplash
oh to be a teenager akimbo on
her flesh-colored couch—face on a wet pillow
hair flailing—oh to be the whipping girl
oh to be to be to be at all
why does nothing come out
when i ask to cry
i rub my eyes raw—
mascara stains a bloodied face
all red all red all red everywhere
and no fucking tears at all
i thought i would be fixed by now
able to feel like everybody else
able to understand like everybody else
a whirling ouroboros of neurons
a scythe curving spine
arms aching off nothing
legs red with razor-burn and
scratches scratches scratches from the cats
i want to speak—i choke on the rasp of my own voice
tendons violin-stringed out of tune
i suppose the years of silence cannot be let go
i suppose i will always be a little boy a
costumed costumed costumed mannequin
oh why oh why oh why does
my heart so full produce a breath so empty
oh why oh why oh why cant
i cry when everything dies
a dirge swings reeds and sunflowers
never me never me never me
i cut my skin to shreds
must i sew it and put it back on
will you want me then
do tell
do tell
do tell