fine like gold and wrapped in regret.
he counts his steps to hate what he's let.
he curves his fingers at the back of his throat,
he wraps himself in a hoodie and coat.
disguised, demised, he cries every day.
disgusted, maladjusted, he ignores their praise.
why does he even begin to try?
why doesn't he just fucking die?
tears on his face, he waves his flag white.
his stomach turns; the tears glimmer bright.
the antonym of brave, he collapses and sobs.
the synonym of fake, his heart gives a throb.
why does he try?
why doesn't he die?
why does he cry and fly and say goodbyes?
why does he ask 'why'?
why is he so wry?
why does he give up every day with a sigh?
