i am not a person who cries

i watch ten hours of tv in two days
read three different series of books
write forty poems
play the same videogame for four weeks straight

i am not a person who cries

but this is a thing i can’t avoid
and the tears come at odd moments
at the sink getting water
walking to the bathroom
picking a sock up off the floor

i am not a person who cries
but nothing else is enough
to escape this

can you feel it

the stink hanging in the air-

the pervasive rut of sadness that crawls
into your knees and hangs in your shins
like stones-

the toxic wave of anxiety
that creeps into your muscles
like an ache you were fucking born with-

the stink of helplessness,
the stink happiness left rotting in its shadow,
that fucking stink-

we need rain to wash that shit away
a deluge of water from the sky to cleanse the air
because we are all suffocating

and there’s no goddamn escape

Another Sunday

Like water through a sieve
your thoughts trickle out,
leaving nothing as the hot summer heat
fills your head and your mouth.

Sweat drips down your back,
slack faced-
eyes glassed over-
stuck in place-
the world almost goes black;

then the tight whine of a mosquito rings in your ear,
the present snaps into focus,
raucous cicadas and oppressive heat,
the day’s beginning at your feet.