There is a poem inside of me.
It exists in the subdued sunsets
of my eyes when tightly pressed.
Every time I retreat inward
I feel it crawling, clawing
on the inside of my eyelids
like cat that wants to be let out.
That feverish third eye
that knows without knowing,
that stirs the primordial soup
and remakes itself each day
on the bones of my grief.
I feel everything to exhaustion,
you might say I am histrionic.
Perhaps you will think me a villain
for all the confession I have made.