not always, but

every now and then,

i’ll pick the wrong thing to repress.

some things are easier than others to bottle,

others carbonate the blood in my veins.

it’s a slow fizz, leaking out on only a microscopic level

so long as I am not shaken up, it’s easy to ignore.

inevitably, though, I am stirred.

when it all comes out,

it’s everything but what I intended it to be.

i’m unable to put it back in;

unable to salvage or explain it.

the bubbling throughout my body slows

to the rhythm of my heart beating.

hesitant, weighted, laboring

through the guilt of the whole thing.

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