Poetry Journal [5]

not a good day
Meah Enya Brooks

people ask you what’s wrong? and you tend to say nothing
or say nothing and shrug,
but you’ve cried 4 times so far today and it’s only 4pm,
and you can’t even fake it well; you’re terrible at bluffing,
and your tea-filled mug
is tear-filled too, and you swallow every last one of them,

and it’s like drinking your own emptiness, being made full
by your own emptiness,
embodying more of a confused paradox than you already are,
a plentiful contradiction; somehow your feelings are both null
and valuable, and mess
is your Feng Shui, and the most untainted days are still marred

by expiration, and you’re overwhelmed by how underwhelming
the future turned out to be.