Teenagers

What is wrong with me? What in hell is wrong with me? Ive been crooning and caressing the same agony for the past two weeks--not shedding a tear, not opening the floodgate, not showing what kind of disaster I really am.

The tornado has already swept through, but Im still retrieving my belongings and gathering myself back together. My keepsakes have been scattered and broken, destroyed beyond repair, and what have I to show for it? There is nothing but myself, a handful of poems, and a few sketches and collages that have since been turned to ash. I am nothing to look upon.

I havent changed from the deteriorating battlements that I have become. After many a fight and many years of being worn and torn, I have finally found my place. I am cracked. I am broken. I am destroyed. What remains of me is little less than a few pebbles of dignity, or rather clods being trampled by the reckless traveller. I have found my place as a part of the ground; I have been therefore exalted. It is too much of a blessing to even be a part of anything or to even have something that can share my consistencies.

In plain terms, I have been, once again, run over. I have found a delicate peace in the lowest class of human: the whore.