Maybe it’s your molars
those swollen clubs of bone
or the cough you can’t get rid of
or maybe you’re just frustrated
by your mosh pit of wants.
But this poem isn’t about you.
It’s about the storm
that swallowed me
the eighteenth time you threw the kettle
then all the screaming
and you probably didn’t even mean to spit out the tofu
but by then
it felt like war.
I knew it at the time
I’m just like you
both of us
boiling over
only I’m supposed to be able to handle it
but I seem
to have misplaced
my breath.