isolation is a basement bathroom stall
at nine o’ clock at night.
it is infuriation at a Sharpied
“you are perfect just the way you are,”
on the cubicle door, because it’s a lie,
and it’s not fucking about that anyway.
you scoff and whirl around
with your fingers down your throat.
and when all that brings up is tears,
you have to tear your skin instead.
it’s the only way to breathe.
subjective or objective, you’ve had too much.
you are too much.
too much mass and volume,
but you still don’t matter.
you don’t deserve—
to take up space.