Nineteen.

I don't know why some things hurt.

Small things,
things without sticks or stones,
things without fangs or knives or claws,
things with no pulse,
things with no words.

You click a button,
I gasp,
breath catching in that sensitive spot
only reached by intended pain,
intended rejection.

You click a button,
I drown,
waves of guilt overwhelming
a clean conscience.

I don't know why some things hurt,
why this hurts,
but it does.

It does.

Maybe the "why?" doesn't matter.

Eighteen.

Beauty is lost in
the cascade of pastel, in
the twist of frame, in
the disappearance
reappearance
disappearance
reappearance
of light.

Beauty is marred by
the flux of brilliance, by
the drone of beads, by
the distance
closeness
distance
closeness
of glass.

But
what
does
beauty
matter
anyway?

Seventeen.

Sometimes, it feels like drowning:
water fighting my lips
filling my mouth
tickling my throat
collapsing my lungs
until stars fall from the sky
and litter my eyes
and shape my vision
and my nose is burning, burning
like acid from the chemistry lab
claiming my skin
and choosing to destroy it,
and my limbs are weightless
numb
unnecessary
and useless,
my heart sputtering
like an engine overheating
pulsing with life
but aching with death.

Sometimes, love feels like drowning.