Crybaby
Crybaby.
Crybaby, the first word I thought of
when I tried to analyze myself.
Willing to brand myself as one
cause it would’ve been
ironic and funny.
Only on the outside would it feel good
to own being this
tear abundant baby infant mess.
The sight of anyone willing to
take my sunshine away
would be met with rain.
Not the rain that moistens the air and
makes the little droplets cling to your window like
a child would cling to their mother
for shelter.
Not the rain that refreshes the soil that
gave all too much in nurturing
its flowers.
The pitter-patter of this rain is
something you know, something
familiar and
after the first
pitter-
patter-
pitter -
patter
fades away into the remembrance
of the safety of what you know
rain to be.
No, this is the kind of rain that gets mistaken for
a monster. A bottom belly growling
monster that you know doesn’t exist so
you attribute the sound to thunder.
The sound happens again, again,
each time churning deeper into the belly of
the beast
me.
Ripping out a harder, lower moan that
your mind doesn’t know.
The rain clumsily falls out of the sky, it knows
that today's forecast was partly cloudy
with some sun and that
this was just so
off guard.
Each drop speeding to the pavement,
these tiny collisions create the sound of
ruckus,
similar to that of a junkyard
ripping,
dumping,
and disposing.
A center of mass destruction
from a crybaby.