Restless Boy

He was tired.
He was so, so tired.

He hadn’t completed a single productive task, 
yet the demon of exhaustion clung to his shoulders.

Pathetic, weak, and selfish.

Three words that repeated in his head,

like a lame-winged bird refusing to give up.

He had always been a good pretender.
But he learned that the longer you keep things hidden,
the uglier they become.

He drags his heavy body towards something.

Home, probably.

He watches his breaths dispersing into the air,

like they were never even there.

He knows this familiar tightening in his chest.
But that doesn’t make it any less painful,
being reminded of how he wasn't enough
for the only one he craved.

Smiles are always temporary.
You can’t rely on someone else for happiness,
because the moment they leave,
they take it all with them.

He dwells in the sickness of those words he should’ve said,
when he still had the chance.

He gets through the night with twelve hours of sleep,
but he awakes more exhausted.

He claims to have overslept.
The classroom fills with laughter.

He had been crying,

battled with his thoughts,
considered never waking up.
Still, professor Harvey scolds him.

He's counting every second until he bursts.

Nobody sees it.

Nobody notices that he’s drowning. 
He could be bleeding to death in front of everyone,
yet they would still not know.

He’s selfish for wanting more from the life he’s living.

Lately, he can't even face himself in the mirror,
afraid to be greeted with the pure failure of a man
that had let someone destroy him beyond repair.

He hadn’t received a simple word.
No goodbye.
Just gone.

And he’s left thinking:
Ah, there it is.

The familiar shattering of a heart that knew better than to trust.

To love.

He knew all along.

Yet he let it get to him anyway.

And now he expects people to feel bad for him?

Oh, what a naive little boy.