I’m a tornado in a bottle but you
Grasp my glass cage and you
𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘒𝘌
You take me by the (bottle) neck and you
Toss me flying in the air and catch
Me again, flirting with death like life
Is a game, and I’m telling you—
I’m telling you—
𝘚𝘛𝘖𝘗 𝘐𝘛, 𝘚𝘛𝘖𝘗 𝘐𝘛, 𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘕—

shattered glass bloodstains
no tears but shock freezing the lines
on your face pick up the pieces
no don’t let it cut your fingers.
sorry. sorry.
sorry. sorry. sorry.

Confidence used to be
Like a shelf I couldn’t ever quite
Reach.

But turns out, I just needed to
Get up off of my
Knees.

you said “maybe
if you
          let it out
a little
         more
you wouldn’t
       explode.”

But
        you
                don’t
understand.
    ­            I
                    cannot
      let it out
                  slowly
like air from a
                       balloon.

all too much it’s all too much it’s always too much it’s too much too much too much too much too much too too too too too too t

It was such
Fine stitching.
Beautiful scenes and
Vibrant colors and
Lovely textures and
Art.

Oh, art!

But then we just had to
Turn it around and see
Its tangled underbelly, its
Mistakes and messy messy messy
knots.
—YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO SEE THAT—
i’m sorry, please, i’m sorry.

Just-
just-
turn it over all we have to do is—
NO.

You are what you eat
And you write what you read.

I have never read the greats
Except an occasional poem for class,
And I feel like a heretic for saying that.

I’ve never willingly
Read Shakespeare or E.E. Cummings
But instead:

I read the words of online poets
Consuming their ink—
Or should I say pixels?
I graze their crimson lining as they
Turn themselves inside out to
Let the whole internet see.

I rise with the wave that they weave with their words
And then when it crashes, when it crashes down
I go under as if drowning was velvety soft and I
Let it wash me onto the shore.

You are what you eat and
You write what you read.

Rarely do I read stilted lines and perfect form
So I write like a mess and a surge and a storm.