Rough Edges

Stones in my pockets, heavy with every text,

each ping a jab that breaks through skin,

mocked for my shoes, frayed from last summer,

a reminder of laughter echoing in halls,

I walk home, the sidewalk sharp, chipped,

years scraping like cheap jokes that stick—

‘Look at those kicks,’ they say with grins,

while inside, I’m just a bundle of jagged edges,

a ragged scrap trying to fit, trying to cling,

to some version of myself that just won’t stick.