Tiled Floor

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…