It started off as a minor thing

Something that would only be taken care of

When it needed to be let out

It would build up inside, for minutes, hours, days even

Up to the point of struggle, where there was nothing left to do

But let it out

-

     And it only gets worse every time you do

-

     And no I'm not talking about no butterflies,

no knots tied with bunny ears,

and definitely not something to do with sourness

—

    Doctors couldn't tell me what I had either.

They tested me, assaulted me with questions

Asked me: "Did you eat today?"

A question always lied to most of the time

—

    I'd raise my voice, a little louder than normal

just to hopefully get the attention of one person

so they could hear the struggle in my tone

and see that something was wrong.

—

     Everyday was a pass from class

From anywhere from 5 minutes to 50,

Always In private because to be in public

with the pain and tears showing to people I knew would make it worse

—

    I built a tolerance

-

    to every tablet, to every capsule,

to every single goddamn over-the-counter medication I could get my hands on,

that wouldn't even work,

because to take a sip of poison everyday to build immunity to that poison will only lead to more pain when you need that poison to end it all.

—

    The restless days, not going to bed until 3 o'clock in the morning

Just to wake up two hours later,

missing school because it felt like I was being stabbed in the torso

and nothing wanted to work in order to get out of the couch I call a bed.

—

    I wouldn't even get a break

because my parents doubted that I was only faking the pain only to get out of one day of the prison I call a school,

Expected to hold my wrists out only to be locked back up in the morning,

and be fed food that looks nutritious, while really, it was meant to go down slowly.

—

Until I let it out, through long exhales,

and a tapping of a foot.

Until it's all out,

And I can relax for a bit.

—

   And by now you probably still think I'm talking about an issue about an upset stomach,

while in reality I'm not

Because the next time you hear my poem

It won't be called: "Stomach Bug"

It'll be titled: "Mental Illness"