When I was seventeen I'd come home from school every day and hope the house would be empty so I'd have somewhere to pour into. To pour all the things people inadvertently filled me with
And all day long I defied the laws of surface tension at the rim of my cup. With nothing to hold them in, things somehow just kept piling up.
I drove to school and when the faint smell of gasoline met my eyes I opened the windows until all the lies were sliced away by the cold air. What terrified me was that as it's coming you can't see gasoline.
I breathed the freezing air in and the gasoline out through the open window and the passing cars said I dare you to survive being this scared of what you can't see. Because people fill you up past your brim without seeing the way that your limbs are holding things in place light years above that little lip of water that can sit above the rim.
The headlights of the cars join in now and they say you are not a cup. How do I know if they're lying? Headlights only show you what's right before your eyes, and they expect you to make the whole trip that way, farsightedly blind. They say, you have so much tension that you don't know what's yours and what you pulled away from others so you hold on to all of it and it ever extends that little lip of water that can sit above the rim.
And now the colored traffic lights chime in. They say the irony of surfaces is that you can't see what's inside because of them, so if everyone is drowning beneath her own surface tension you'll never know. People are too hard to read.
I dare you to survive being this afraid of what you can't see.
I wrote this poem when I was seventeen. I intended it to be spoken word. But spoken word cannot be seen.