O.C.Don't

Sat, 09/08/2018 - 17:50 -- Penola

You don’t need to stare -one, two, three, four- at me like I’m some sort of science experiment. A freak of nature, just as amazing and depressing as a third-grade paper-mache volcano, spewing numbers and tics like baking soda and vinegar. Feeling them crawl out of my mouth- scratch, scratch, scratch- like tiny spiders that hatched under my tongue. Check, check, check, and check again like a paranoid amnesiac. I don’t need you to point out that -tap, tap, tap- like it’s a disease. As if you could somehow catch my illness by breathing in the same particles of air that have become intimate with my lungs. If only it was that easy.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741