The boy who wasn’t picked

He sits in the back.
Not because he wants to—
but because he’s tired
of being picked last
when he dares to show up at all.

You don’t see him.
Not really.
He’s there, though—
in the bathroom stall during lunch,
because his gut’s staging a protest.
IBS, the silent screamer,
writhing beneath his ribs
like worms made of fire.

They say, “It’s probably just nerves.”
As if nerves could make your stomach
scream through steel.
As if anyone ever asked
why he eats crackers
and nothing else for days.

But he has ANOREXIA,
and no—
it doesn’t always look like a skeleton in a hoodie.
It looks like skipping breakfast
and calling it “not hungry.”
It looks like counting calories
like confessions to a god he doesn’t believe in.
It looks like fear
every time a fork touches his lips.
Like control
in a world where nothing else listens to him.
It’s the mirror saying, “You’re still too much.”
It’s the scale saying, “You could be less.”
It’s watching your friends eat fries
while your stomach begs
and your brain says, “Don’t you dare.”

though he doesn’t look “thin enough”
to make it real.
Not to them.
They need bones to believe pain.

It’s being congratulated
for looking “healthier”
when really, you’re just vanishing
with a better smile.

And no one sees
how his ribs burn at night
from hunger and guilt—
how food becomes a weapon
and his body becomes the battleground.

He fights his reflection like an enemy,
but loses every single time.

And his mind?
It’s a house with broken windows.
He hears laughter from the outside
but never feels the warmth.

He is BI.
Not “half-gay.”
Not “confused.”
Just bi.
But to his friends,
it’s a punchline.
To his FAMILY,
it’s a betrayal.

His mom says, “Why can’t you just choose?”
His dad says nothing—
which is worse.
His silence is a sharpened thing,
carving shame into the boy’s heart
with every breath he doesn’t take.

FAMILY PROBLEMS
aren’t just arguments.
They’re echoes.
They are him,
learning to tiptoe
through rooms filled with broken glass,
memorizing where to step
to avoid explosions.

And still—
he smiles.
He laughs at their jokes.
He passes the test.
He says he’s fine
because that’s the only thing
anyone ever wants to hear.

But at night,
he writes poems in his mind
with blood he doesn’t shed.
He wonders—
what it would feel like
to finally be enough.
To be seen.
To be chosen.

But the bell rings.
Another day.
He picks himself up,
dusts off the loneliness,
and walks into the world again
like it hasn’t already eaten him alive.

Because he’s strong.
But God—
he’s so, so tired
of having to be.

Copyright © arno niem | Year Posted 2025

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