Bloom.

confession.

it's like this - I wash the glasses because

I can't wash the sadness off me

and sadness is this humidity clinging to my insides,

etching a hole in my heart

and I feel so small, small, small.

it's like this - I put the glasses in the cupboard
(and this is not a pretty metaphor, these are just glasses)

and they sound so loud when they touch each other;

it hurts my head

and I don't know if it's just me

but its utterly pathetic because

Iwasjustwashingthedishes and now I'm having a fucking existential crisis,

it's like this - I can't explain the anger coiling in my stomach

to people who've never felt it,

or how sometimes everything is so so loud

and this is not a classroom - it's a circle of Dante's hell,

I can't explain why it took me ten minutes to find the right pen for this poem (but the internet exists!!1)

or what it means to turn all that boiling blood to ink-

it's like this- I write this poem because

when i was a child i wanted to be free so i drank up the stars and walked on the thorns

and never let the salty water choke me.

i was stubborn

never stopped, never cared

but now that the shackles of sadness rattle,

i listen.