“Breathless cliché” 

was the phrase used by

my English teacher when

she marked an essay of

mine, as I tend to write

all things very similarly

to how I write my poetry

due to my awful incapability

to feel anything at all to a

normal degree, when I feel

I am drowning in a white

ocean, pulled under until my

lungs are full of feeling and I

breathe each atom of this earth

in until every cell within me is

soaked in it, drenched in it

and I exhale emotion so potent

that it comes as a shock even

to me.

 

I do nothing halfheartedly,

it is not in my nature, I speak not

in prose but in rhyme and riddle,

each word dreaming of being

the rosebud that blossoms, rose-

tinted dreams encase the delicate

synonyms in breathable glass, the

translucent barrier inhaling and exhaling

independently, waiting for its petals

to fall apart with all the grace in the

world and settle perfectly, I

wish I could speak the melodies

that run through my mind but none

of my infinite combinations is yet

to fit, tell me why.

 

Perhaps I will leave essay writing

to the less intuitive, those whose

minds do not instinctively firework

all over the night sky, or at least

until my emotions come in less

violent bursts, I want to feel in

caresses, in feathers against skin

and fingertips on faces, not gunshots,

not torpedoes across warm oceans,

not missile drops or car crashes,

grant me an icy sea and let me

lie down, hair swirling in a frozen

whirlpool, limbs fighting against the

weight of liquid clothing as they descend,

I am so terribly sick of the lukewarm.

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