She gives voice
to the things
beneath her tongue,

the umbrous nature
of what’s inside her
crawls out over her lips

and takes its own sweet time
finding feet, claws, wings.

She learned too late in life
her mouth is a Pandora’s box;

she is never quite certain
what will come
when she lets the hinges creak.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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