My Unstable Poetry

You Are Gone

You are Gone
I read from the crystal white, glistening absolutely stuck out pages
I wonder what this meant
My mom said to me today I'm not using 'me' correctly
Informatively
Subjectly
Softly
She said I'm to quiet to do good anyway so what should I do
I don't know what to do what am I doing
Don't cup your hands or you might be fed
Oh how do you want to look down upon this way
She takes a knife and sculpts my head while I talk what she calls 'nonsense'
She touched my shoulders, oh god help me
Shoulders are meant to be propped up in the frame you were raised in
Now where's that frame
Oh yes she says as she props me, nails me
Into a delicate, silver lined, pinched skin structure
Why this frame, mom
Because it's the frame people want you in, my dear
But I know no one mom
She grasped the clip of the last seam strewn through my hair in a quick slip, you know who you want to be
I wake every morning in a frame
And why shouldn't frames be made like how you are framed
Because I want the frame to break
I wraggle and turn and face down, in my sleep the frame isn't there
Because what you want to be is the frame of your sleep
Why can't it be like this always
She stitched another point in my brain
Because I don't want a child without a frame
After all, I have one, now read those words in your book

*OK YES I KNOW NO QUOTATIONS I WROTE THIS QUICKLY OKAY BYE*