Beige waiting room
And an impending sense of doom.
Droplets crash into tense thighs.
Lachrymose eyes,
Brimming with saline imply
It really is high time I cried.

Hushed, judgmental tone,
Pretends to play with phone.
Think of last time.
Kicking and screaming
For a sense of meaning
Or something of that kind.

Uncomfortable mindframe.
Desk jockey calls my name.
I crawl.
Flimsy veneer of self-esteem,
I fumble with phosphenes.
More tears fall.

I never know what to say,
These things never go my way.
But, for some reason, I still try.
I will take this seat
And not look at my feet
If you don’t look straight at me when I cry.

Formes Frustes – High Time I Cried (2014)


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