I try to push them
out
in
so many ways. 
I bleed them
out,
I cry them
out,
I vomit them
out,
but still, they multiply,
growing
in my gut, spreading their black veins
through my body, poisoning
my brain.

It’s too crowded in here
for all of them.
They take me, and
I live
in them so much that
there is nothing.
I am
paralyzed
by the whatifsshouldhavescouldhavebeensifonlys
that my words
on the page are incoherent.

My voice
is silent.
I am
an empty shell,
rocking like the sea.
But
I am
finding that the best way to
silence
them is to
make them feel beautiful,
so I turn
them into poems.