How is it that the way I feel
Doesn’t appeal
the next day

The next hour

The next second

The next instant?

Sickening green plagues the airways and my burdened mind rests firmly in the folds of my skull
Hewn from dirt and molded like metal—in insurmountable heat

Absent of the pressure which turns to precious stone

Plagued in an illness that my own cells created
Or rather manifested
That nobody can see

And you hear it
You see it
It burdens you the same way it carves holes in my chest
Of deprecation
And inadequacy
That has absolutely nothing to do with me

And you hear it
You see it

So how could I ask you to help me carry
When your shoulders are already weary and heavy

Dare I reach out for the again-th time
I’d rather hurt quietly, convulsed, and inside.