how nice would it be
if I could go back.
instead
i lie awake
restless.
thinking.
neurons firing in a frenzy
like some children's construction cartoon
bob the builder
trying to fix my mistakes.
my phone lights up
bright white
like an examination
of my character.
harsh.
keeping me awake
but
not as grueling as
the intrusive thoughts
his hand on mine
moving it
but
i did not want to move.
his words
like kisses
from a blade.
"disgusting"
it wasn't my fault.
was it?
-r.w.
YOU ARE READING
raw
Poésiea collection of honest, soul-bearing poetry. these are the parts of high school no one speaks openly about, and they represent the struggles of many students, including myself.
