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Poem

A patchy, cracked tiled floor
Receives my broken heaves and knees,
my swollen mouth, my red eyes
All buried deep in a bath towel
The floor receives a ceaseless flood
Of sorrow, of overwhelming regret
And it wrenches me and my open lungs 
Over
 and over

I hate that this floor feels less cold
Than my Caribbean welcome
And how it also couldn’t begin to matter
To anyone
Just how deeply my skin breaks 
Nor how I paint myself with bruises
Nor how my throat is burnt silent
from stifling screams that had built up in me

Whether I’m just crazy or sorry
I’m still here, and a mess
Still hating myself, and my stupid choices
And all my misgivings about
Love and life
and the way that most choose to act it out
Because, for me, it’s less of an act
And more of a disease
For which there is no remedy
It’s a burden I've learned to carry
When I see it arise, I stand ready
To tend to my scars
And I try not to be surprised
When I find myself
Sprawled on the same little piece of ground
Feeling more broken than glass 
and less composed 
than all the tears forming pools 
around me, in the tile cracks

Today, I feel spent
I’ve gone down and yet
The cold floor cradles me here
It’s always ready to receive me early
And I’m starting to think it may be ok
To go down for good…
I am just tired of life…

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