Almost everything makes me cry: A poetry book

And almost everything makes me cry when I think about my body, when I think about my size. And sometimes I wonder if I could tear off my skin and sew it uneven— if I’d have enough courage to do what I can’t undo again. To have enough hate in my heart to make it all end. But I solemnly swear to myself and the world that that will not happen. That is just a thought, and in my poem it will stay— and rot. For the vines are growing through the bramble, twisting where they shouldn’t go, and maybe that means something, or maybe it doesn’t— maybe it’s just a scheme. I’m kidding. Or am I? You don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m standing in a field alone, like a scarecrow left behind by everyone else. And that is lonely. Very lonely. Sometimes I feel like I have no one but myself. Maybe I just need more social interaction. And I try to find a rhyme for interaction, but I don’t think I can— because what would I even say about attraction? “I find myself gazing at the stars, watching the black between them, wondering if they have attraction…” Is that a metaphor? Or should I leave it— that rock, that pebble on the bare, dirty floor? But I find myself drawn anyway. Ah—yes. There it is. Attraction. Maybe I could turn it into a metaphor. Maybe everything is a metaphor if I look long enough. If I were alive in another time, I think I’d end up in a mental institution for life for the way I talk. But that’s just a thought. I don’t know why I said that. Sometimes I have a thought and I pour it in the wrong cup. But that's all right. That's okay. I'll write more Another day And with this You cannot stay So I'll be on My way