Some Poems

What can I say? It’s late, and I am an angsty, melodramatic teenager.


Lose myself in the scribbles
Of life.
Fill up the holes
In life.
Round and round
The speedy mechanical snail leaves its graphite trail,
Patterns so pretty and mindless.
What blissful distraction!


I don’t feel it
But my shirt hovers a little higher than it should when I lay down.
It’s a little hard to bend down
And a little harder to look down in the shower
And hardest of all, hands down, to face the mirror.
I always feel full
Of loathing for this body
That I’ve let down.


Concern in her words.
Aggression in her tone.
Maybe she just hasn’t mastered the American voice yet.


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