Twelve o’ nine of the fourteenth of twelve; My bones say otherwise

My backbone started turning into a c-shape curve

because they may have avoided themselves to speak, but the weight on their stares were heavy on my shoulders pointing out that I’m not doing my best

My fingers crack without force and often get a little too numb it takes awhile for them to feel anything

And I swear it’s because of the times, I can no longer count, that I settled doing less of what my hands are capable of because they told me I’m doing everything wrong

My feet refuses to take me miles because they’ve set mud of doubts on the dreams I used to want to conquer

And for every way they’ve made me feel that I am never good enough for anyone to fight for and to love, my arms have grown longer for a stretch to wrap around myself, so I don’t let my whole body fall apart.

See, this is why you can’t base anything with what you can see, touch, or get a hold of

Because I may be able to walk straight with a good posture and poise, but my bones have deteriorated from words people refuse to censor and feelings they don’t mind to care for.

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