Nine to Nine at Eleven Ten

in the dark
cross-legged and small
i sit in a worn out hoodie.
their song is on repeat
it makes me think of him
and doubt myself
but i listen over and over
and under and over again.
my back hurts but won't crack
my eyes sting but won't cry
my fists support my chin
promising to support any violent tendencies
(as long as they are respectable and short-lived.)
the snowy stationery tells
of leaking hearts.
the penpal paper may, in fact,
know me better than i do.