there is a sponge in my chest
and it never wrings itself out
they pour into me without thinking
anger, sorrow, happiness
like I’m just somewhere to leave things
it sits inside me
and doesn’t leave room for me
when I try to speak
it comes out in a borrowed shape
nothing is clean
nothing is mine
and I can’t tell anymore
what was mine
or if anything was
which water was mine to spill
and whose was meant for someone else to drink
but even sponges don’t own what they hold
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 1:56 PM UTC
there is a sponge in my chest
and it never wrings itself out
they pour into me without thinking
anger, sorrow, happiness
like I’m just somewhere to leave things
it sits inside me
and doesn’t leave room for me
when I try to speak
it comes out in a borrowed shape
nothing is clean
nothing is mine
and I can’t tell anymore
what was mine
or if anything was
which water was mine to spill
and whose was meant for someone else to drink
but even sponges don’t own what they hold
