Things are meant to be let go
Like hands and feelings and
The butterflies you grew in 1st grade
From pupa to cocoon to
The day the leave you.
Seventeen years should tell you that
Things are never meant to last.
I am my own source of
Depression, you know.
I keep having to delete these lines
As fast as they get typed
For the drops on the screen end up
Typing out my raw feelings for me,
Keys so mixed up to form
Intangible, electronic feelings
That mirror the ones inside me,
Reflected and just as confused
Tears mixing up letters like
I never wanted feelings because the only thing they end up being
With no forms or contracts to sign
To give you insurance for the pain they cause.