Spilling

It's as if I am drowning,

Struggling to keep my head up

In water so deep it spills over the edges

And splatters onto the floor.

It's as if I am on my tip-toes,

Barely able to touch the bottom,

And most of the time, it's okay,

But every wave pushes me underwater.

I sputter and cry out, but it's in my mouth

And spilling every time I speak.

It drips from the ceiling, an endless flood,

Filling all the buckets in my mind.

There's too much to bottle and store,

Too much to seal away,

But I must try or else I'll drown

In all the things I can't contain. 

It's spilling all around me,

Soaking everyone who comes close,

Clinging to their skin and clothes,

A reminder of the mess I've made.

It's as if I can't find the bottom

For more than a second.

My toes brush against the rocks

And try to cling to them.

It's as if I'm drowning,

In a torrent of myself.

I can't drown it out with anything

Because the flood comes from inside.

Aesthetic

My aesthetic is the soft rays of the sunset

Painting the underside of the clouds

With light the color of peaches and marigolds.

It is the song stuck in your head,

With the bassline you feel in your chest

That compels you to tap your toe.

My aesthetic is the rolling thunder

That shakes windows and rattles teeth

As it ripples through the sky.

My aesthetic is the black outline of trees

Against a sky the color of fire,

Whispering in the wind.

It's the smell of the ocean and wood smoke,

With the sticky sweetness of honey

And the clear bite of pine and mint.

My aesthetic is silent sobs in the shower

With tightness in the throat

And catharsis in the form of hot water.

It is the primal screams of grief and elation,

The burn of lightning in the sky,

And the touch of eiderdown.

My aesthetic is the whistle of the highway,

That exhilaration just beyond the speed limit,

And the ecstasy of being alive.

It is the thrill of victory

Coupled with voracity,

Curiosity, and ambition.

My aesthetic is the Caribbean sea,

The light of the moon,

And the warmth of the touch of a friend.

It is the blinding brilliance of the sun,

The mystery in the stars,

And the love of all the universe.

Implosion

Every piece builds the pile,

Each one heavier than the last.

It grows and swells and builds

Until it reaches critical mass.

Eventually, the strain's too great,

And that is when it starts:

Sudden, violent, unstoppable,

It rips itself apart.

Unable to downregulate

The primal, cosmic wrath,

Each piece tears the next one down

Along that one-way path.

A wound rips through the universe

Creating a million cracks.

And all because the pile

Finally collapsed.

Unsent Letter No. 8

 I don't know if you ever forgave me,

But I know that I haven't forgiven myself

For that grievous error,

A mistake so catastrophic that it haunts me

More than half a decade later.

I know that we've both tried to move on,

But I know that I can't let it all go,

And I can't help but wonder

If that's the case for you, too.

Forgiven, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

They say "time heals all wounds,"

But neglect to mention the scars left behind:

Scars that fade into memories

And are never really gone.

Scars I left on you which I have carved into myself.