What if you are sad, everyday,
and you don’t know where it comes from.
How can anything feel the same way,
as when you were young, sucking your thumb
until the skin wrinkles, soft white.
And sucking in air doesn’t feel quite right.
What if when you drink, your fingertips
scald white hot with steam scars,
and the only words that crawl between your lips
are ugly, cruel, to hide the bile in your heart.
Trying to spit out the fears that consume you,
when instead there are far better insults to subdue to.