It stifles me,
A thick wool blanket that's
Butter-soft with a butter smell,
Wrapping around my sinuses like a
Tissue stuffed up a nosebleed.
Curlicues like optical illusions,
The lenses of the 3D glasses that
Weren't handed to me
Bring my flat insecurities to life:
I'm the kernels on the bottom of the
Popcorn machine
Needing to be blown and buttered
Up to be presentable.
Until the expectations
Along with the glasses
Come off to be recycled
To another empty corn husk of a person
Who needs air and butter to fill them
(But who really doesn't.)