5 minute poem

A throat full of gravel

I rinse my mouth with broken glass, swish it around

like the sashay of my hips

swiveling left and right 

trying to find balance in my core,

wading waist-high in self-doubt

treading a fine line

between dreamlessness and true rest

Wrong is quiet

Wrong is hidden beneath my tongue 

Wrong is the words I do not say

Wrong does not boast loudly of itself

They can’t hear it anyway, past the litany of shame

I carry like

the purple crescents beneath my eyes

Wrong is wrong is wrong 

because my exhaustion

does not carry the perfume of blooming violets 

They ask for plastic-wrapped sweets 

so I rinse my mouth with broken glass

Squeeze lemon juice on the wound