Prove That You’re Still Human

by suicidallyanonymous

There’s a whisper
puncturing the emptiness
of ellipses and parenthesis,
where lips stopped imprinting
tender cyberspace solar-systems;
shattering the window
to an exposed pelvis.

It’s that moment of intensity
when you step on a sliver
of stealthily-placed glass,
that chunk of pain designed
to prove that you’re still human…
Because people want record
that white blood cells
really do exist,
even when you’re trying to dazzle them
with tales of misery business.

They need to know
how many gallons of liquid nitrogen
it took to turn you into a corpse,
because you’re a walking billboard
and for the time being
-they’re your disciples;
because they are wondering
who the fuck they are,
and are delighted in your lack
of censorship.

Mentally challenged.
Because that’s how you should be,
when their bloodshot eyes
grace your reflection
with their pupils.

You were meant
to bend
like cheap plastic kites,
tethered by a thin polyester thread.

You were meant to break upon impact
and drown, watching
as the chemically-imbalanced ocean
dominates a world speckled with boulders
– now pebbles;
corroded individuals
who once stood up for themselves.

Truth is no one wants you to be different,
you weren’t taught to be somebody.

It isn’t easy, growing up with people
who desperately want to know you,
because they have fingertips
to sort out the socially awkward.
Picking and prying with their fingernails
until they’ve finally discovered
that you’re a nobody
just like them.


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