Pressure to perform
no pleasure or conform
sure, my soul’s a storm
in every heated prickle of my skin,
the thoughts swirling up my brain
(like this thought (and this thought too (
this thought (and this thought too(
PARENTHESES BREAK)))
psychoanalyze
the direction my iris flies
can’t escape the way my gaze slides
down to my heart or up to the skies,
don’t forget to designate
a grounding mate
in this state
of panic
pulling you down from the attic
and tethering you to senses,
1- there’s granola stuck to my teeth
2- it smells like fake vanilla bean
3- hear this pencil going scrik-scrik-scree
4- my tongue tastes stale toothpaste
5- I keep staring at your grade
but in it I just see
the balloon I could be
losing all steam,
flying, and I go free.
***
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Jordyn Saelor 