It's hot outside and you walk alone
pulling long hair away from your
face, a sloppy and ugly bun at the
back of your head

The sun beats down
on your
Tan legs and pale chest
(Because it's never exposed,
never bared)
The bruise on your right shin
pangs with each step
But you ignore it because the pain is
bearable; it will subside

A bra strap slips over your shoulder,
and you hope no one saw
as you hide it under your shirt again

The corner bears left; it slopes downward steeply
And you have to run to keep yourself
Feeling steady; balanced

The bruise throbs.

The sun bears down and you hate it
as you watch elementary children
scream and chase each other around through
the sprinkler system.

You get jealous
thrust your nose in the air
hope they're intimidated
and awed at the 'big kid' so near.

But they aren't and you know it but that doesn't stop you.

(The bra strap falls,
you don't even notice as you
push it back up)

You want to weep because
No matter what you tell anybody
You want a childhood again
Because happiness never happens

Your high-topped feet
pound on the familiar sidewalk;
it goes and goes and you follow
blindly, without thought;

Your thoughts are on other things,
too many things and you're mentally
exhausted (two years and counting)

Emotionally exhuasted; no matter
how many crappy poems you write;
no matter how many times you smile
because you're genuinely happy

Things come and go and that one smile
is long gone.

The breathe passes dry lips and you lean
against the wall, stuffing your
face into the sweet honeysuckle and
inhaling deeply.

For a moment, things are peaceful again and you are happy.

(You walk on and you haven't
fixed the bra strap so the jarring
step off the curb brings it back over
your shoulder.

You decide it annoys you and you'll fix it later.)

At home, you sit in your hot and stuffy room
Fan on, windows open,
snuggled against your dog and reminiscing
(because thought is entertaining, you
can do it for hours and the relaxation helps your sleep.)

You decide your life is unsatisfying
as you reread Harry Potter for the thirtieth time
But you do nothing about it and move onto chapter two.

Sometimes you just want to cry and cry
for hours, just to get it all out (but what will others think?
That little freak, crying for nothing)

and, of course, you'll get asked and you want to
tell why but your stomach always balls
up like crumpled paper when your
mouth opens.

They shake their head and decide you
have issues.

(You know it; but you don't want their sympathy
because why the hell should you have the right
to have issues? What has life done to you?)

Frusterated at the lack of logic, you
(push your bra strap back up) pound the pillow;
stand up and thrust your nose in the air and
stomp out (right shin pang, right shin pang)

One day you cut your hair.
You like it. Everyone is surprised
"because it was so long and beautiful!";
laughing, you shake it off and admire it in
the windows.

Weeks pass;
it is mussed; you try and try to take care of it what the hell is going on?

Making a face at the mirror, you simply give up.