Just a Phase

My phone screen, smeared with where a zit patch used to cling,

reflects my face, the tired, pale, familiar thing.

Pink polish chipped from my thumb, like my whole mood.

Another text, another friend whose parents are subdued

by lawyers. This is it, another house breaks. Fine.

They say it gets better. But when? What's the timeline?

Mom says I'm dramatic. History test, a C. I tried.

My backpack feels like bricks. There’s nowhere I can hide

from all this weight. And then she asks, 'What's wrong, my dear?'

Like there's a single word for everything that's here.

It's not just one thing. It's the air. It's what I breathe.

It's knowing 'better' means there's nothing to believe

in right now. Just this. This heavy, sticky now.