The depths of your sorrow don't compare.
the weight machines withers under the narrowed glare of the faulty teenager, a body made to cherish that falls prey to the crumbling construct of the society.
Why compare a size 10 to a 18,
when instead you can compare the distance between the hollows of our fingers,
when instead you can compare how your brother's smile has grown in the corners, since you left your rotten abode.
when instead you can compare the silence between our bodies that stretch like the narrow sea,
until words melt off our ashy tongues and regret wells up inside my ribcage,
anxiety crawling over my hunched shoulders,
a well of pouring anguish that seems to be filled with my black tears.
Cicadas in the distance, crisp wind flowing,
A mystic, the daunting darkness veils our bodies in thick mist.
He whispers, "where do you feel it?"
"Everywhere. Everywhere." I clench my jaw, tasting his barely concealed rage on my chapped lips.
Smoke fills my lungs, my bones dangle carelessly under the wafting lullaby of the moon,
eyelids drooping as he wipes off my blood.
I mean to say, "the places where you haven't touched me yet"
but instead the wind carries it away, a silent order,
it calls back, "the bleeding has stopped. It doesn't hurt anymore."
Because unless you are on the ground, wishing your unworthiness to cloak you in its misery,
a being that limped from the gates of hell, your hands covered in the blood of your inner child,
Wings ripped off your back, a feather floating in the night.
Unless you are on the ground bleeding, red and dazed, tears of wax pouring down your sculpted marble,
Your misery is only worth when it's too late.
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