the kind unique to middle school your body contains a being
you yourself do not understand.
its half shaken milkshakes and pebbles in your stomach
never to be put to sleep
the kind that tastes like sawdust
after shouting words he won’t ever hear
choking on your own calls for help in hopes
this time he won’t call you overdramatic
like dead echoes, like dying songbirds.
the kind that materializes into baggy eyes
of nightless sleep and sleepless nights
like upward treadmills and drowning in nothing but air and
your own inability to suffocate yourself.
the kind after Endings
of releasing yourself from who you thought he was and what
the “we” would never really be
which tastes like bitter coffee
and something white
the kind after writing a poem about it
and still feeling nothing