Since i’m wasting time I might as well do it properly.

There’s something stuck in my teeth and I can’t seem to get it out, fiddling for hours until it threatens to send me sobbing and crying back to a place I cannot go.

I hide behind masks of marks and grins and smiles that hurt too much to keep up at 11:00AM. Sometimes my head is too heavy to let me breathe, but I find that it’s worse when I’m free and breathing as much as I want, unheard among snoring and dulled late night sports commentary.

My voice is always loud and nasal, like background noise as your eyes roam to more important things, but it is not loud enough when you ask for me to say it again. Maybe tonight I’ll write enough and draw enough and hide away enough to forget I’m real in my room, at least till the guests upstairs have gone.`

Sometimes it’s too much to be okay and sometimes it’s not enough. Who am I kidding? We’re all fucked up behind silent masks that crack slightly in the daily rounds of seventh period gossip. I hide behind a mask of marks because I don’t know any better. I’ve seen two spiders in thirty minutes, but I could have done more to hide it, because here there is shame in fear and in being awkwardly wrestled into a jacket by someone else. The image in the mirror is not what I want and I can see a third speck make its way across the wardrobe wood.

It could have fit you, you – the ensemble of long legs and long necks under the cherry tress too early early in blossom. It was so easy to forget without your faces and voices under my eyelids and in my head that the jacket doesn’t fit.





(I haven’t been fucked over yet, but why do you believe its inevitable?)


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