everyone needs to stop looking at me
their eyes are elsewhere but i
somehow feel them closing in,
doesn’t matter if i tap
my heels together three or
a thousand times, i won’t go home
how do i cover my entire self
with just my hands? i am
demanding a refund. there’s too
much skin, i would use up
three containers of concealer only
to blend halfway into the concrete.
but i’ll be fine if i hide? right?
i’ll be okay if i remain corner-
bound and silent, showing only
my inconspicuous back,
make no sound, cupped hands over
greasy mouth, breathing too quick,
too loud, what a lousy excuse
for a voice! what a waste.
stay, clandestine, unintelligent,
a face as incoherent
as the words that rumble past,
as lonely as the fly-less walls.
Chris Taylor is a young writer who creates poetry as a coping mechanism, sharing it as a way to connect with others. In their spare time, they enjoy spending time around dogs, family, and listening to electronic and alternative music.
