Poetry

27. Chest Pain

My chest hurts.

It doesn't hurt from my bad posture,
Though it should.

It doesn't hurt from the fact that my binder's a size too small,
And I wear it almost double the amount of time I'm supposed to,
And never take a day off,
And I guess that makes me lucky.

It doesn't hurt from my brothers' hugs,
It doesn't hurt from my brothers' punches.

My chest hurts from the rainwater filling it up.

It hurts from all of the lies I tell,
Squeezing them out of my lungs.

It hurts from the pressure of the world I live in,
The pressure I put on myself to figure out who I should be,
What role I should play.

"More weight," he'd said, when condemned for the witchery he hadn't committed,
By maybe I did commit a crime.
Maybe I am the witch
They'd sought after,
Only a different kind now.

I'm not asking for more weight
Because I'm not ready to die.
I'm not asking for less weight
Because I'm not ready to cry.
I'm asking for strength,
Strength I lack,
Strength I have,
I don't care.

I'm asking for freedom that I forbid myself from having out of fear.

I'm asking for honesty from the compulsive liar I've turned myself into.

I'm asking for protection from the people I've shoved away,

For a companion in my enemy.

I'm asking for the impossible,

And I don't care.

My chest hurts.

I'm asking for strength,
Because my heart's about to break.