My knees,
they scrape on the floor.
They are weighted.
And when I walk
my insecurities are left on the pavement.
The neighborhood kids,
they always ask
where I get my chalk.
What should I tell them?
That the school supply store is out.
Maybe that would spare them the trip.
Or should I tell them
they have to be deep-fried in despair?
That every immeasurable minute of their existence has to be socially lobotomized.
That everything they say and do
will have to be judged and categorized.
Saying nothing is what I ultimately will do.
Your gelatinous kneecaps will protect you.
Mine, now a fine dust,
an abstract chalk drawing of life,
will wash away with my tears.
New ones will replace the old.
That is how it always is.
My knees,
they will be angry with me.
They have supported me.
And I hurt them.
I will become no better
than the ones that lobotomize me.
The weight I continuously add
will make them sad.
They have no one to support them.
We will be face down on the pavement
creating some of the most beautiful body chalk
with our combined insecurities.
If only we realized the true beauty in insecurities.
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