Sensory

I am the dirt under her fingernails.
She picks me away from where I cling to her
trying to hide how close I want to be
trying to make myself smaller
less visible
in still wanting her.

I am the uneven part where the comb missed at the back of her head
Probably around every third day or so
when she gets so tired her arms don't want to reach out.
I stand out once you notice me
but I don't really matter.

I am the leftover smell of a scented bin bag
No purpose, really, until I'm needed
No real appreciation warranted
My floral and I fade away soon enough
anyway.

I am the silence after the door slams
wilted flowers on the doorstep
a smudge of snot on the sleeve of a hoodie
the casual, routine breakage
of another teenage heart.