Kinsey Peterson


Composure is the beige of a new suit;

It whispers like ghosts

And coats the inside of your tongue like medicine.

It smells of bodies forced against one another in a small room;

It is the rotting body of someone forgotten.

It confines me.


Composure is grass-green in the morning dew;

It whips like the wind in trees

And tastes like dirt.

It fills my skull like the burning smoke of a fireplace

And stands tall and firm like the trees.

It empowers me.


Composure is the distorted clear of fresh water.

It grates like stones crushing one another.

It drips down the back of your throat like the blood from your bitten lip

And has the unmistakable scent of rusting iron.

It is murky like a dirty pool and filled with mud.

It burdens me.