a nonrhyming poem , short

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It wasn't a nice feeling.

The nausea, the headaches.

The anxiety that made home deep within his skin, crawling out only to grab hold of a panic attack.

It wasn't a nice feeling. Not at all.

His friends were worried about him, their voices clawing at his brain in seeping pools of concern.

His boyfriend had taken the lock off of his window, wearing it down with each step he took through it.

His room was a mess now, crumpled papers and wrappers sprawled around in any unoccupied space. Homework had piled atop his desk, a variety of splotches from spilled liquids covering blank space.

He kept the stuffed animals that friends, and his more than a friend, had gifted him. They were worn now, fabric and stuffing nestled into his bed and smashed into the corners of it.

His sister checked on him sometimes, voice gentle as her eyes darted around the piles of mess. His heart would reach for her, pulled back by fingers that threaded into his torn sweatpants' pockets.

Looking at how well he treated himself, well, he could only think of how much he resembled his father.

It wasn't a nice feeling.

Not at all.

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