Tiny Room – Poetry

 My brain is a tiny room, 
a closet under the stairs,
a cardboard box
with corrugated walls,
warped and misshapen by blood.
Dried hard, crusted edges
paper cut the folds of my brain.
Claustrophobia creeps, seeps.
Air replaced by words, suffocating
I try to pour the words out.
Dripping, out of order,
from a clogged, rusty spout
muddy words form one by one.
Sudden inhale, a rush of room,
a cleared space to move within.
What now?

- Stephanie Lowrie

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