can you catch a feverish rage
in the palm of your hand
and poke it around like a pillbug,
making it docile with nary an effort?
i keep getting told these tall tales,
that emotions are these simple little things
that you just flick on and off,
without a second thought
my emotions aren’t so serene, you see,
my anger has tendrils, has swiftness,
invades and pervades every nook around me,
scurrying around until it’s had its fill
and when i cut away the thickets and the thorns,
a single, delicate orchid remains,
sadness, drooping down, the pale white
seemingly fading into translucence
i haven’t seen joy or excitement in a while;
i used to think they were seasonal,
now i just think they’re endangered,
relics of happier times stuck in the quagmire
instead, fear looms over me,
chunky, acidic orbs of gelatinous goo,
plopping onto my outstretched arms,
and causing me to recoil back into the lush
and as i lie in the leaves and the filth,
shame curled up into the nape of my neck,
breathing so hoarsely, so haggardly,
that i couldn’t help but weep
sadness sets in.
it is simple, like the pillbug,
yet it has such heft behind its scales,
and instead of flicking to and fro,
it simply keeps coming towards you.
closer,
closer, now.
until it becomes you.
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