it’s always small pains that leave me ruined,
the force of a stubbed toe on my way up the stairs,
prickled blood from a pushpin that wouldn’t stick.
the push-pull of father son,
weighted love on brittle plates
the way my mother says i eat too much
so i stay quiet. we lose grace
on grey mornings tense throats words
too loud i stumble back for this vertigo
makes me doubt every love there ever was.
my coffee was too hot this morning,
my voice in class too shrill, the girl next
to me too insistent that i go and subsequently i
broke first period with my thoughts.
back to the drawing board for a day not so dreary,
for a more whimsical take on a more poem-worthy day.