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.

It doesn't.

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.

You drown.


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