the gaps

is it the flush of pimples there on my chin

or more to the point, the curve of my hips?

you don't know the names of every scratch and scar

how dare you get started on the sound of my laugh.

of course i shut down whenever you're there;

there's nothing to do except watch you stare.

i could keep writing, square my shoulders, raise my brows,

but in the end it's all pointless if i'm just an item to browse.

and yes we've shouted, marched and fought

for something far more damaging than before:

an abstract world

it's constantly with us

the endless "dinging" drives our heartbeat

and you let it.

how can you sit there, GET OFF YOUR PHONE

for crying out loud, don't you feel alone?

or you do, but it's fine

it's normal,

you're good.

because you're not the figures,

they were just misunderstood.

and how's that to explain

what it all cost,

the marching, the fighting

did it do any good?

because now i sit here

a prized trophy on a shelf

while the comments keep coming

and a shadow rings my bell.

/

Thank you for reading!

If you enjoyed this, here's a book you might like:

You Could Be So Pretty by Holly Bourne.

This poem was inspired by a Vocal TS I read just then.

Stay strong 🌱