i stopped finding
soft, meaningful poetry
in your footsteps
and the cracked driveways
i stopped looking
in crowded rooms
and my coffee’s reflection
i stopped asking my friends
if they were happy
they wear dark circles for makeup
and coffee stained t-shirts
i stopped living when i was sixteen
i’m looking for reason
no one can tell me where it is
or if it even exists
I sat in the empty truck-bed looking at the sky. Mid-air and the breeze makes my tears feel frigid on my cheeks.
You are too young. I tell myself. 16. You’re a cynic who thinks the world is terrible place and cried for too many people.
You are too young to know about broken hearts and numbing the pain of it.
You are too young to want to die. Yet–you think about killing yourself every day. (Don’t tell the therapist, she’ll send us away and then the rumor will start.)
You are too young to be hurt and feel sick to your stomach for no reason.
We are such a cracked youth. Some of us are still intact; the perfect, the blameless; they make sick with their judgmental stares. Some of us have not been so lucky; we are the abused, the used, the mental; we understand this world more than some adults.
So, I may be too young to feel this. But–I’d rather feel it then be oblivious.