Jessibel

Knees to chest, heavy breathing fills the stall
Tears dried, his imprinted cheek stings.
The air feels thicker breathing in through a compressed chest, but it slowly starts feeling natural.
His head hurts, as he stumbles to his feet.
Utopia didn't exist, not for him anyway.
No happy people or trustworthy hands.
Just an endless void behind the locked doors
Which he will never open again.
All he has is fruitless dreams to hold,
And the hope that things will be better.
The sweet name his father once called him,
Now a branding iron defining him as
A freak. He is nothing but a name now,
And the name hurts more than the bruises
And the scars left by them.
All he wants is to be him,
“That's all he wants," he whispers to someone trapped
Inside the wrong person, too far to see.

This poem is about: 
Me

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