I am confined.
Confined by these sticky walls,
Etched by those like me, those who
Force themselves to look directly in
to the off-white toilet bowl of their reality.
I am irrelevant.
Irrelevant to no extent;
Not thinking to catch myself when I fall
Leaving myself behind in the darkness.
Watching only my own dreams.
I am aware.
Aware of bodies pushing by me,
Soft but hard thumps against my shoulders.
Like fist against carpet.
I can’t sleep.
The loose latch on my window rattles
Steadily as the wind pushes fast against it,
Whistling like a tea pot. My head hates me;
Wants to throw me to the streets and spit on
My thighs.
I cry.
Like rain thundering down my spotted cheeks;
Each drop colliding into the next like a chaotic
Shopping mall. I mourn myself.
Because to most people, I’m dead.
Because I’m not worth anything more.
Because I hate myself more when I remember
The cellophane wrappers tucked cleverly beneath
My pillow.
Because I don’t look like what is pretty.
--TRA
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