Behind the teen's door

Her hands will shake, a shudder that will vibrate her bones, buzz inside her very skull. A woven string on her wrist will be clutched like it was a lost friend. Heart beat, heart beat. Her mind will be full of words that don’t make sense (or maybe they do?) and her tongue will be heavy with those that remain unsaid. Complete and logical rebuttals seem to sprout from her mouth with ease, and she will whisper them to herself to know.

(it still makes sense. I still make sense)

She will shriek to a god in which she does (not) truly believe and she will find no solace in the tall people’s words. Her doorframe will crack with her every slam in their face, just as her world does with every word they say. Her rage will rise, but she will always fall. Like an orphan of war she will crawl, wounded, and a new slam is heard and a new crack is formed.

The tall person will put a hand to an ear, and say, “listen, dear, did you hear a scream?” The other shrugs and sighs, “she’ll ruin her singing voice that way.”

…

His hands will shake, a shudder that will chatter his teeth and chill him cold.  A glass will press against the thin wall, and the newest argument is revealed. A flourish of colourful language he will find himself more acquainted with in the days of late. He will stow the language away with the drivel he hears from others that are his age.

(“I want to be unique” “The environment truly matters” “My mum will kill me when she sees my mark” “She’s such a slut”)

The words will make him shiver with distaste, and roll his eyes, as they seem to repeat again and again. A thought will cross his mind, “if they have to argue, can’t they argue about something new?” because it will always seems the same, and he will question their maturity, when he sees it in comparison to his own. He will not be sure whether he wants to hear those words that are not to him, but will wound him. Frustration will simmer just beneath his skin and will one day boil over, but for today he’ll just let it fester.

He will wrap his hands around his throat and on his words he’ll quietly choke.

The yelling will cease, when a gasp is heard beyond the door. “what’s that?” “probably just your terrible hearing, you cheating bastard.” The yells will begin again.
…

Both he and she will whisper to themselves, in their rooms behind closed doors.

“Is this what I will be, when I am tall?”