He

He
Unwelcome, was he,
The boy who never did find a place to be,

He's out of place,
For he's only had one taste,
Yet his scars speak of such bitter haste.

He bites his nails until they bleed,
He sees through "truth" like thin leaves,
And looks at bitter things as if they sheathe.

"Wait," he could have said,
"Enough." Is what came through,
He lost what was left of a very thin thread,
He lost more than just two,

He'll wish for many things, as anyone else,
But to be alone was never a true one,
He's dust on a shelf, easily forgotten by even those who recognise him.
"Enough," he one day cried, but it meant nothing.