crybaby

now i'm sitting on the edge of this thing. 
this big black bowl that sinks in. 
and all i can do is look at it. 
and how it holds all these pills that are too big to swallow. 
so i bite my lips and dangle my feet. 
but once i sit myself up i'm looking at you and your mouth. furrowed brow. 
it keeps forming words but saying nothing out loud. 
keeps pausing and starting and sputtering.
because i asked the things i shouldn't have again. 
i sit on my hands. listen to you blubber.
instead of picking the scab we let it fester and leave the conversation alone long enough to watch it attempt to heal. 
but it can't heal, instead it mutates and mutilates and distracts. 
i try to divide my attention between the two.
but suddenly this big black bowl,
this thing i can't swallow,
this big soft underbelly
is slit open and left unstitched.
seeping and oozing all over my fingers and feet like something fell from the fridge.
and you look at me,
helpless, pleading and reassuring me you didn't mean to.
but it's still bleeding and it crusts.
and we text each other every few months so you can sacrifice your apologies to make room for niceties. and empty asks about things that haven't changed. 
and the black bowl
is all-consuming.