This one doesn’t smell like lavender,
but reeks of shoes left out in the rain,
molded and forgotten for weeks
like the lyrics to the song
you used to sing to yourself
before someone asked you to stop.

This one is a bleeding cuticle 
torn from the nail bed
when you couldn’t sleep 
for shrieking into the dark,
imprinting illness onto the ceiling.

This one kind of stops near the middle,
trails off, forgets what it was saying… 
but knows that no one said poems
have to be pretty, and neither do you.