Almost everything makes me cry: A poetry book

Almost everything makes me cry

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