you write stories with
the lines all broken up.
you wonder if you
generate your thoughts in
fragments, if they have always been
like this. your memory
plays out in front of you
in pieces, like a mosaic,
like the jagged shards of a
floor that was never cemented together.
you are placing so much faith
in keyboard letters that
cant describe what you are feeling.
your fingers slip over all
the wrong words.
theyre overdramatic. theyre
overused. theyre inaccurate.
your english teacher
taught you the symptoms of
depression last week, but authors
taught you a long time ago
not to glorify things like that.
society mocks you
so you keep quiet, keep to yourself,
take it out on your bedroom wall.
your father yells at you for ruining
a perfectly good yellow-painted wall
and you think to yourself that
it isnt the only perfectly good thing
youve ruined. and so you look at the
erratic pen ink stains and
gashes on the wall.
tape the blink-182 poster
you got years ago over the faults.