Day: Aug 8, 2022

I keep running out of pages to stain with my ink,

I keep running out of people to grab as I sink.

They call me an anchor, a dead weight, a pity.

They tell me my sadness could drown this city.

But secretly they want to watch it all unravel.

I am just a test run, an echo of a gavel.

My doom satisfies them more than a rich meal,

And my joy trips them up like an Achilles’ heel.

I keep smothering myself with their intentions,

I keep catching on fire from the lingering tension.

They watch me being torn apart like a page,

And they clap as the pieces whirl off the stage.

-Jackie