I stew for hours in silent anger by myself as I try to go about my day, but eventually the night beckons my thoughts and I out for a walk and I get drunk with emotion

so then I try to sober up by watching five episodes of The New Girl and hugging to Celine Diawful with a couple of my best friends under the Christmas lights strung on our wall

but it doesn’t totally sober me up and before I can stop myself, I start writing mediocre poetry in a furious haze so I can close my eyes until morning when I will wake up

hung over from my anger, but conscious enough to remember what I wrote and feel the regret trying, but failing, to break down the anger in the pit of my stomach—the pit that my forced indifference tried to completely hollow out weeks ago.

anger, regret, and stomach-bile bubble together

but there isn’t enough room for everyone, so they rise to my throat to spew out of me

and here I am again.