uproot.

no one is left unmarred by the smear of blame.

you're no exception, but neither am i.

and i hate it.

my brain has a low emotional capacity

so it regularly discharges excessive feelings

plopped into tied-up bags of polyethelene to drop at other people's feet

and perspires the rest in catharsis,

all to expire, to be forgotten.

you spike the system with more than it can process

so the remnants linger, building my tolerance.

i don't need this, i tell myself.

when the time comes, i will return to self-assured balance,

restock my supply of smiles,

regain the ability to give

without you.

but right now

the idea curls around my throat in aching little wisps

and it hurts in a new flavor every time it arises again.

it's silent, but it's a growing baobab, grasping at my veins.

not a breath of it catches in your ear

so you don't notice the disparity between what it looks like

and what it really is.