as the flaxen liquid hits my tongue the grievances all seem to dissipate like snow under mid march sun
placidity like being peeled from my booster seat and lugged over my fathers shoulder and carefully tucked in my trundle bed
the buzzing suspends and the air around becomes thick yet comforting like a weighted blanket
i think it coursed through my veins before my conception
the gnarly little runaway seed with flask in his back pocket
i groveled out of the belly red faced and parched
and i’ve looked in desperation to fill my cup up ever since
it’s not a question of if it’s a glass half full or glass half empty situation
i’m prying onto the glass either way.
No comments:
Post a Comment