society

You carry it well,  

like a fistful of nails in your throat—  

but who am I to mention the blood?  

We all drink the same goddamn poison  

and call it different names.  

Yours might be ambition,  

mine’s more like shame,  

but it burns just the same  

on the way down.

Every morning feels like peeling back  

a scab you need to keep,  

because without the wound  

what the hell were you suffering for?

(You lace your coffee with silence.  

You iron your shirts with guilt.  

You tell yourself the ache in your bones  

is just the weather.)

But we both know it’s the weight  

of everything you never said,  

stacked like wet towels  

in the corner of your ribcage—  

and somehow  

you keep adding more.

I watch you cough up excuses  

like you’re proud they still fit in your mouth.  

(“It’s fine.”  

“I’m just tired.”  

“It’s not that bad.”)

You could drown a village  

with the flood behind your tongue.

And maybe you should.

Maybe then someone would notice  

that you’re more storm  

than structure.  

More aftermath  

than man.  

But no—  

you keep sewing yourself shut  

with fishing wire and old receipts,  

call it healing,  

call it growth,  

call it whatever the fuck makes it quieter.

Just don’t call it truth.

Because truth  

would taste like copper  

and come out screaming.

But you’re not ready for that, are you?

No one is.  

We’d rather choke politely  

on the things we can’t digest  

than admit  

we’ve been feeding on  

scraps of ourselves  

for years.