You're a teenager again
and of wrath you are full
so you always complain.
Why can't you be grateful?
You're small,
you lose your voice
to the yelling in the hall.
When you speak they just hear noise.
All that's bad feels like home.
You find comfort in depression
and you're longing for a fight.
Isn't that what love feels like?
Burn what you had.
It's not you-
they're the reason you're sad.
Hurt yourself
is what they want,
not too much
but just enough,
to stay underground,
so they can censor your words
and you grieve your home
for it became a house.
You don't go back.
I've lost enough.