I could feel the
volcano bubbling,
waiting to erupt.
I tried to throw
cold water on it,
even a fire extinguisher
but it did nothing.
The lava came exploding out
covering every thing
in its path.
But mostly, him.

I decided I wanted
to spend it like
I would any other Sunday.
Go get a coffee but
this time it’s free.
Go home and
do my little house chores,
dishes
fold laundry.
Then listen to a
YouTube video
while I make spaghetti;
big door open to the
screen door
allowing in the fresh
spring air.
I went back to my
boyfriend’s later
and we got high
off my birthday ****
and then I went to bed early.
I have work tomorrow,
and my life to live
and I’d like to start this decade
out right this time.

I imagine publishing
these little poems
that I write
in my kitchen,
and my car and the work
bathroom.
Or anywhere it hits.
What would people
think of the author?
Would some girl
in 20 years,
find my book in the
back of her high school library
and relate so deeply
that she also begins writing.
Or is all of this just drool
from a depressed person,
no more than an open journal.

I suddenly felt like
I needed to scream
or explode or
both.
I was hunched over
trying to coax a teeny tiny
***** into place,
listening to the two women
I work with be
scandalized by some girl
doing Onlyfans.
What a *****!? What does her man think?

Ugh YUCK SHUT UP
I wanted to burst.
Instead I hurried up
to finish this menial job.
I am surrounded by
boring people who
talk about boring ****
all day.
It is killing my soul.

When women with kids
ask me about not wanting
to have some of my own,
I respond with an answer
that’s something like,
I enjoy my freedom.
But what I really mean
is on Thursday after a tough
shift I was able to
have enough drinks
to make me feel like
life is worth living again;
while listening to
90s pop on full blast
in the house in which
I live alone.
And there is no one
to tell me I shouldn’t.