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.