it bled in again,
choking the lights to a dull gray—
predictably lame,
with broken teeth
to gnaw frayed scabs
like grinding old gum.

the silence roaring like white noise,
crawling through me,
carving old words into my stomach,
predictably lame syllables
hissing like searing wounds.

until—predictably lame—
stupid tears burst forth
stealing my breath
reminding me:
doing nothing gets nothing.

so do nothing again
and get nothing again—
but I am so damn tired
of choking on it.

---

6/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.