A step outside and I could breathe
Had my nostrils not been plugged
By the sweet irony of loving oneself, but not wanting
And yet we cherish these moments
When we're doubled over sticking fingers down our throats
To rid of the bloating in our stomachs
and voices in our heads
Because we're too nauseous to tell them to stop.
And the red paint coats my carpet
Drenched beyond evaporation or dry
A crisp layer hardening the top of it
But a smooth, gel center where we print our feet
And walk with deaf ears to the sound of wet stammers against tiled floors.