It's numb and it's sick.
The kind of sick that painkillers wont help.
The kind that shatters mirrors.
The kind that you scrub for hours in the bathroom to try and scrape it off.
It's silent despair-
Like sobbing but the tears never come.
Only threatening their presence with stinging, burning, heaving.
Go to the bathroom and slam your fist against the wall.
Feel the hollow tile connect with your knuckles and hear the boy in the stall beside you go silent.
You'd react to the pain that shoots through your hand and up your arm, but you- Starchild- hardly feel it.
It makes you only sicker.
Turn and dump your sickness out your throat.
Flush it away.
Watch your hand go red and then purple at your sides.
You don't even reach the door before slamming your fist again the wall besides it.
One. Two, Three.
A sickening rhythm.
It will only echo louder in your head as you sit in class, asking a few more times for the bathroom.
Stare at your knuckles, starchild, watch the bruises settle.
It's sick. sick. sick.