When will it be the right time
To admit that I’m spiralling down
An ambiguous hole, with my words
Like knives at a millimetre away from my skin
Tugging at me, their heat next to my blasphemous sin.
It’s easy to hide behind poetry
And tropes that look like self-deprecation
To make myself feel better, but what
About if become hollow, and empty, and drained,
Because all my nights I spend, hidden, deranged.
Conversations with strangers on a train
Followed by a high tide of awareness
You’re dripping wet, in a daze
Always anticipating a precipitous drop
(I could use some restraint)
When in reality it’s like being lulled
To the bottom, that looks quite the same.
Trauma tied to my tail
It’s a bunch of handwritten post-it notes
I keep going back to