reading other people’s poetry
trying to find myself 
in their words
in hopes of alleviating
of this loneliness.
but their sadness seems so
packaged and presentable.
a flower on a grave.
a single tear falling.
the wind in the trees.
mine feels like…seething rage–
a selkie scream–
something ugly.
upending and upsetting,
aberrant and abhorrent.
almost offensive to nature itself.
like a monster from a movie
that knows only
“devour” and “destroy”.
how do you continue on 
with this crashing around
consuming everything inside you?
why should i placate it and call it pretty
just because other people do?