soaking

in the tub. with my cell. with bubbles and epsom salt. with hot and hoefully healing waters.

in my self-hatred and concern. about my skills set and capabilities. about if my creativity is even alive anymore. about my cage called “a body”.

in my longing. for the sun. to be outside. to have a group of friends. to host shindigs. to have a home again.

in my fear. of my personal future. of what this president is doing to the whole world. of my career. of never being happy again. of being stuck in this state.

in hopelessness. because nothing will  change soon enough. because I will never like, much less love, myself. because I will never truly write again.

in the tub. with cold water now. without anymore bubbles or full grains of salt. without any sense of peace that this was supposed to give me.

soaking.

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snow-globe

I am a paltry human,apocalypse-snow-globe
invisible to the viewer, my existence not even guaranteed.

I am a window in a building,
black glass with white splotches on the seal.

I am a tiny structure,
my roof barely peaking high enough to be seen.

I am a block in a neighbourhood,
where homely warmth is only pretend.

I am a small city,
locked away inside a semi-circle.

I am a snow-globe,
and nothing inside me is really of any concern.