I’ve come to realize
that the absence of expression,
signifies the presence of regression.
That if one were to cage their emotions,
repress their thoughts,
bite back the tip of their tongues to keep the words from falling;
disquietude will make a home of their body.
Forebodings will move into the guest room,
and anxiety will plant poisoned seeds in their garden.
No dam in the world is powerful enough to hold back the oceans in her eyes,
but brick by brick she will try.
She will hold back the ocean
until the strain becomes something even Atlas could not bear.
She will beg to release the ocean,
release its weight,
but she forgot how her tear ducts work
and her hands ache to lift Atlas’ burden to distract from her own.
And now her home lies on the other side of the dam,
the unwelcome guests having made themselves comfortable.
She begs her body to release the ocean,
to drown the garden
and wash away the remnants of its residual poison.
She’s begging on her knees,
and to some it may look like she’s praying for divine intervention.
To others it will look like she’s awaiting an execution.