It’s 2:58.
Morning’s like these, products of nights that refuse to leave
I hate these in-betweens.
All I can do is express,
then suppress,
It makes me sick.
Each step seems to regress
the earlier adventure.
Say less,
Learning more of the mess.
bubbling up, exploding out of me.
Yet,
always privately.
If I ever expressed everything;
I suspect they’d all leave.
It’s better to be bright and happy,
beaming neutrality,
what do you need?
that’s who I’ll be.
I wish I could
reach out .
Physically, I can.
Verbally, it’s an awkward mess.
I’m distressed
Scrambling for answers for when.
When
When
will everything will be normal.
Normal
Normal again.
Instead of uncontrollable.
Downright deplorable.
Push when you come too close,
Clinging when I need someone the most.
I hate this.
L.V. Roy