Let the Past Circle the Drain
Words wash over everything.
Any armor you pretend to have
falls into a useless state.
Water seeps into any chinks, crevices, cracks.
You yell, hoping it will stop the flood;
hope it'll plug the holes
like a stopper in a sink.
A wave hits.
A tsunami of adjectives,
pertaining to your own unique set of flaws,
swallows you up.
Currents sweep you away.
"Selfish whore," says your mother.
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