A Spine of Stories

Jar

When I was little, I had this glass jar.

It had a paper label, stuck slantily on.

Emotions Jar

It was always half full, with a shimmery liquid that moved like the tides.

When I was little, it occasionally overflowed.

That was cue to cry it out to my friends.

They brought hugs and silent words of comfort.

But once it emptied halfway, I'd stop.

I'd tell them: it's okay for now, and put the soggy cork back on.

I'm eighteen now.

The jar left behind, with many other metaphors.

Today, I sit in front of distractions.

Distractions, distractions.

But when it's quiet, oftentimes rainy

I sit in front of the rouge, spiteful shimmer.

Sometimes, I think back to the jar

How it's probably cracked, shattered somewhere in puberty.

Now I sink in the ocean, brought about by a drizzle.

My friends watch on. Eyes emptied of  platony; hollowed stuffings.

Each time, I take in more and more water.

I wonder how much more I am able to drink

Before my lungs fill.

Before, I am swallowed.

Lost, like fragments of the jar.