the june air hits our lungs
a shock to our systems,
as it should be spring
but the winter still has a hold
of us; of you.
if you are the tree,
then i am the leaves
and oh god, how i am trying to grow
trying to find the courage i hid
-between the midrib of my body-
to tell you
i’m barely holding on
i’m only only every pretending
to be myself
i’m pretending to be happy
but we both knew
the pavement is wet
and i closed my eyes
hoping to feel
any fucking thing
lie to me, like you always do
tell me about how much you care
about what i think
at least pretend like your fucking listening.
fuck, i’m glossed over.
i’m hiding the evidence
of the rot
of the hate
of the narcissism
of your gad-damn self-righteousness
but don’t worry, sweetheart.
we’ll never caught
we’ll always be here
with no room to grow.
