and i listen to music
that’s in sync with the rumbling
in my chest,
the music that if you stop singing along to,
you can hear the background humming,
the low-pitched constant noise,
that is the noise that my empty
thorax likes to echo against my ribs.
i look at art,
that is all over town,
the paintings hung up at the museum,
or the cracks in the gravel
on your favourite street,
that you always told me to watch out for.
i cover myself,
with quilts that child labourers
on the other side of the world
put together, for little under
a dollar a day,
because i know that if i dont have
their blood on my skin,
i wont have an alibi for yours.
i got my smile from my aunt
and the hair from my mother
and my attitude from my father,
but the heartache?
the fierce loneliness
that does not strike,
because to strike, it needs to be out
the loneliness that does not go away.
the heartache that makes my entire world
the loneliness that makes my body
a meal for the acid that you showered me
in with tears in my eyes and a genuine plastered smile,
that’s all you.
so i congratulate you,
for failing to just be a passer-by,
you are all my scars,
and i am one rugged mess.