Confessions

My emotion spreads over the plate

like liquid too thin to hold itself together,

It drips off the edges and streams down

sticky as heated honey

See, I am not dead,

nor am I middle-aged, middle-class stodgy.

I haven’t honeycombed my feelings off

and sealed them tightly where you’ll never see them,

so I can act like I can’t even feel them,

act so dull that I convince myself

See, I ooze, I drip —

but what good does it do me?

How will I clean this all up

and get on with my day?

©Wendy Mulhern

April 7, 2015