Is it stuck to my head?
No-
I’ve looked everywhere.
There must be a sticker somewhere.
I can’t find it.
And yet
people seem to think
I’m their
soul-sorrow recycle bin.
They come
with styrofoam sighs,
empty bottles of gin,
shed plastic skin.
They leave with lighter weight
yet I have no collection day
for their toxic waste.
It sits, corroding the edges of my mind-
until
nothing feels like mine.
No exchange. Just take. take. take.
Where’s that sticker that says
I’m the place
to discard your dead decay?
Did I stick it on by standing still too long?
I need to find that label,
peel it clean from my skin.
I was never meant to be -
a soul-sorrow recycle bin.