More of a Man

Jun 2

More of a Man by Bruno Chong

It has become physically impossible for me to cry.

I can’t imagine what it must feel like to cry

together.

Instead, I simply stare

Away from the flock

I am dead:

A corpse is sitting up,

in their fourth period class

its head turned to pg. 455

eyes glazed over

inert and immobile,

festering,

while my mind is being forced

into a suit and tie suffocatingly tight

And a padded cell, asphyxiating me

With the smell of isopropyl alcohol.

White cushions,

White lights,

White walls.

Nothing to hear,

Nothing to break,

No dissonance --no tears --to blemish the cell.

Disgustingly clean.

A desert of whiteness.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to cry.

Don’t offer me water;

The walls will pinch inwards,

Rob the air from my breath before I speak,

And stifle any noise.

Instead,

see me.

Hear me:

I’ll write my tears

onto the page.

It Hurts