Feeling of small.
Of no help.
To no one at all.
Of hiding from none seeking.
Of not talking to God.
Of pressure mounting against bleeding molars.
Of snipping red skin off the white sides of a torn tongue.
Of being young but not young, not grown.
Of being too close to some impossible place.
To reach to quit. To need to quit.
Of wanting to.
Of knowing quitting is better than all options staring in your face.
Of only ever feeling home alone.
But even then, there,
feeling out of place.