Futaba

When did skipping meals become a right of passage? 

A secret society of sickness so many seek to squeeze into, 

But really, not squeeze, rather slip.

I found this vignette in a notebook from summer 2024 and thought it was worth sharing. I have no memory of writing it, but I'm glad I did. 

The five stages of grief,

except nobody died.

They still flow through me

like he's gone forever,

but does it really matter?

It's not like he knows who I am.

However, he is gone,

forever,

There is a language 
spoken only in half-glances, 
in the weight of a pause 
just before someone smiles. 

the numbers scream

I’m not enough

I’m not enough

I’m not enough

we are not composed of numbers

so why do we let them define us?

(YWP Editor's Note: Congratulations to Csquared! This poem is the November 2025 winner of  The Tomorrow Project's monthly awards!