I’m glued to a place where I should feel, 

yet all that there is to feel is tangible. 

My walls are painted white to hide the scrapes of my past, 

yet no matter where I rotate my neck, there you are;

plastered, stuck. 

I am not your bulletin board, 

so why are you leaving me pinned, 

forced to watch you enjoy your life while I’m questioning 

my very state of mind? 

The scars you left behind aren’t visible, 

yet I battle with the very existence of you

every. 

single. 

day. 

And to go back to my white walls of my very white room, 

with the white wooden desk with the filed down corners, 

and you’re the only person there? 

I’m glued to a place where I should feel, 

and I feel as though each of my limbs and tattered features 

should be spread across my very white room. 

However, everything is scraped,

and stuck together.