Fragments by Olivia Wang (17, Washington)

His brain is in his body, 
Just like anyone else. 
His mind, however, is elsewhere. 
It is somewhere unreachable, 
As if living an alternate life 
With struggles of its own. 

---

His ritual begins each morning 
As the alarm clock chimes
Its infamous melody.
He puts himself together, 
Picking up his backpack, 
Becoming the student he is. 
Not the student he wants to be. 

The first fragment takes its shape 
When he sees his reflection 
in the school bathroom. 
It is him, unquestionably, 
But it is not how he sees himself. 
Maybe one day, 
His view of who he is 
Could show itself to everyone else. 

When he meets his boyfriend in the hall, 
The second fragment tags along to peers, 
Driven by their echoing laughter 
And looks of disgust. 
The fragment clings to his mind, 
Just like the reactions 
That show he does not belong. 
He wishes to step away 
From the restraints of close relationships, 
Yet his boyfriend sides
With the darker end of his mind, 
Forcing him into silence. 

Academics only strike him down further;
His mind takes its usual vacation
While he struggles to grasp at concepts. 
The fragments constantly fly in
As he goes through each class period, 
But he has nothing in him left 

To fight off the prevailing danger. 
He wishes he were stronger. 
He wishes for control 
Of who he is 
And who others see. 
He wishes that others could see 
What he was capable of, 
But his mind rejects any possibility 
Of letting him take the spotlight. 

He returns to his house 
After an average day at school. 
His house is not a home to him 
But merely an open area 
For the rituals to continue as they please
And for the fragments 
To hit even harder. 

He is tired of the fragments. 

And he is tired of rituals. 

Tonight would be different. 
Finding his desk, 
He hunches over the paper in front of him, 
Pencil clenched between his fingers. 
His mind is reaching the end 
Of the exhausting repetition. 

Unsure of what to write, 
He wavers. 
And just like any other night, 
The ritual completes itself again. 

And then he adds a step. 

He arranges all of his possessions
With absolute detail and perfection, 
Leaving them where they will stay 
For at least the coming few hours. 

He sits back down at his desk 
of neatly arranged items. 
The words are meant to flow, 
Yet he cannot make them flow. 

And so he continues to sit. 
Just as still as the words. 

The pencil remains stationary
while heavy memories overtake his conscience. 
The fragments come together. 

He collects all of the pieces in his mind. 

​Arranging them to his satisfaction. 

Selecting what he needs to write about. 

Choosing the stories to tell the world about. 

And finally, 
Pencil hits paper.

---

He has finished telling the world. 
​
---

And now he is gone.