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.
Well, I like that this isn't the sort of poem you're likely to read everywhere , it's very unique. I like that you carried the metaphor through . Hardened on the outside, soft in the middle, sounds a bit like us..... people.
And while as far as the imagery goes that was probably a bit too much information, it's cool that there's that avenue, a place with which to reflect.
I like the sharpness of the first line.... a step outside... non navel gazing. You return to it because the lines that follow it go on to make the point. So, I very much like that aspect of the poem too. The whole demented whorl of feeling or being is a road taken because of a road not taken. That's complex, sweet, and easy to miss.