instead of broken plates and dripping sinks,
tonight
my self-shame is visible in the way
the extract burns my tongue so prominently
that noodles feel like lemons and
taste like the nothing
that i'm so desperately trying to escape.
processed pasta and citrus-scented breath
have me gulping,
as the the air that reaches my chest drowns
in the same acidity as the rage that i feel.
this is a different numbness than what i felt when
i created alternative versions of myself,
just to run from the version of everyone else around me.
i guess, what, all my efforts have been forsaken, and did any of
it matter in the ******* first place?
-i guess i lied when i said
there would be no dripping sinks-