We're all good, here

I am walking out of the door, and it's a type of cold and metal that makes me wish I had never touched the door. And it's fine.
And those people with the cool bangs and Twitter bios didn't even look at me as I walked by them, and there was a sort of candle wax that melted onto my stomach walls. And it hurts when I move, but I need to move, so I always hurt. I run, even, because it's fine.
There is a gross boy following me on the walk home, calling me pretty, when I wish he wouldn't call me pretty. And there is a cute boy on the way to school, not calling me pretty, when I wish he would call me pretty. But it's fine, because it doesn't matter what gross boys or cute boys think about me, so it's fine.
The drummer with the hip band shirt whispers to the dude next to him, "She's disgusting, how revolting! Look at her being rotten fruit, and dirty dynamite," and I long to wrap my fingers around his throat and tell him I'm good, really I am, and then hit his head to the ground so he never has to look at me again.
But I don't.
And I am walking outside, in the same outside that he walks in, and I am looking at the very same trees that he looked at this morning when he came into the school. And we talk to the same people, sometimes, and he makes the same kinds of jokes that I do with some of them, probably, and that’s a good thing because I am funny and so is he probably.
I wouldn’t know, though, because we don’t know each other, and he is only that boy that I see at school and sometimes work up the courage to wave to. He is not this all-knowing god, with hands made of steel. He goes home and bleeds, and hey, I bleed, too.
There’s probably this thing that he does with his hands when he’s nervous, he might fidget or bite his nails or play with his buttons or play drums on his thighs, and I do things like that, too, when I’m nervous, because I get nervous; we both get nervous, sometimes, and that’s alright.

And I am singing Tracy Chapman to myself, with a bomb under my armpit. The candle wax has dripped through my skin, now, and has made puddles at my feet. And it's fine, because I'm a good swimmer. And it'll be fine, always, because if I wasn't, I could learn to swim. Swim with candle wax in my lungs, and it dips in, and it kills me, and I'm fine.