Waiting For it to Pass

I don’t know
I’m just holding on to something
a marble perhaps,
pressed sweaty into the tendons of my palm
and it’s displacing heat,
it’s cooler than I would have thought,
or maybe my palm is simply heated with upset

words seem to bombard me from all sides
and I wish that I had a typewriter
this computer, it works fine
but the words
the letters, they come out so soft
they don’t slap into creation,
nothing is punched into the page
there is only an intention of rage
or disdain in the words
and it falls away
cools off too quickly,
like the marble.

Thoughts swallowed
down the throat
They are bits of broken glass
and spoonfuls of chalk
they don’t go down easily;
they are things that have to be burned down with
hot smoke
or washed away with cleansing​ alcohol,
and they fall slowly
like an apple core in the esophagus,
creating limitless pressure in the chest,
until it falls into the stomach
and I can feel it all
start to burn away
with stomach acid.

And the conversation melts into something that could be considered civil
but I’m boiling inside
and I’m digesting the apple,
and the shattered marble has cut my throat,
and the chalk has made my mouth thick
like old, dry french fries,
and something has crumbled.

So I’m sitting and waiting for it all to pass.

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