I'm caving in on myself with clarity
that I'd expect from one who lives
with nothing left, and it can't get
better. My father must be ashamed
of me for everything I've been; I'm
the opposite of him, from what I
remember.
Now I'm face down on the pavement,
and no one seems to care about the
way I've come to be about all of these
petty things. It's apparent that I'm
wasting all the years that pass through
me. I can't keep pace with everything,
and I'll never sleep the same again.
Seven years eat me slowly; you're
finally breaking through my skin
with how you treated me, and I can't
let this happen again. How can I feel
composure if you carry yourself low,
drowning out all that i know?
I'm biting my nails and I'm holding
my tongue. Not forcing my words,
making this undone.
(I'm still a kid picking up the pieces
of my youth, and I'll never dream
again.)

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