When I’m small, I see the afterimages
Of disgusted sneers wrapped in paper-thin flesh
When it’s dark, I hear the voices
Of brittle children on the wind, whispering urgently,
‘The boy with the journals is contagious.’
They say it’s planned obsolescence, and it’s
Meant to be this way.
When you break them they’ll
Send you something better.
‘But the boy with the journals is defective,’ they say.
‘Something in the skin he’s wrapped in.
It’s a tactile contaminant
So it’s best to stay clear
Perhaps if we ignore him, he’ll just disappear.’
”When his mind starts to wander, he sees the cracks
In the glass, of a home made vacant too soon.
When it’s quiet, he hears the sound
Of words ricocheting off a fragile body,
‘The love that you feel is outrageous.’
They say it’s planned obsolescence, and it’s
Meant to be this way.
When you break them, it’s okay.
They’ll send you something better.
‘But the boy and his love are defective,’ they say.
‘Maybe something with the bolts in his head.’
So they took him apart,
Every screw, every tether—”
Had the nerve to be shocked, he couldn’t hold himself together.”
Come together, against the weather.
These are the bonds that they cannot sever.
For we weren’t built from glass,
We fight back,
Feel the earth beneath us quake,
For our souls were never yours to take,
And children are not built to break.”
-ss
YOU ARE READING
Unsaid
PoetryIt was painfully worded , And beautifully read , The things that were written, Were those never said.
