Perform

 

Pour and pour

but it still doesn’t

ease the pain,

the raw feigning rain

of feeling...

Of trying to fit in.

 

You don’t fit in.

 

You have never fit in.

 

These social circles

don't fit your jagged edges.

 

Your voice doesn’t conform,

skin armour uncomfortable,

acne scars and distant stares.

So, you pour and pour.

More.

Another four.

Same ritual

every day.

Perform as if

you are the norm.

As if you aren't

weathering

the brunt of the storm.

 

Words slung like arrows

can still cut though,

and you run through

every thought,

carefully placing

the words

so as to

not layer on

another round of abuse.

 

Just waiting until

the fall of darkness.

Where the abuse

is self-chosen,

wasted on a daydream.