Sometimes instead of coming home and completing work for school
I exchange not-so-pleasant pleasantries with my mother
and greet my impressionable pet
before locking myself away in my room and
barricading the door,
drinking my weight in stale words
before laying back and drowning in sadness,
the weight of the day washing over me and
filling my lungs with acid until
my innards melt and my intestines
writhe into my chest cavity,
entwining with my ribs and constricting until
my bones tremble and crack beneath
the pressure of sickness
brought on
as always
by the most insignificant people
and the most vapid of conversations throughout my day,
and when I try to let it all out,
I find I can feel boiling tar pumped through my veins by
the twisted machine I call my heart,
constructed entirely from scrap metal and
barely beating with each high thud of
steel on bone, scraping down to the marrow
until I can feel that feeling crawling up my throat again
so sudden that I only just make it out of my room,
knees on tile the color of mud
and my forehead touching porcelain.
Still, the tears don’t come,
but I wipe my eyes regardless, smearing makeup,
and climb back to my feet, shaky and weary,
before falling to my bed and curling under the covers,
eyes closed, breathing hard,
and I wait until I’m strong enough to get up
and just do my homework like a good little girl.