Poetry

Red Hole

A hot red hole has appeared. It hovers in the spot where my anxiety hangs like globule weeping.

A hot red hole has appeared. It hovers in the spot where my anxiety hangs like globule weeping. The red hole, much like the black variety eats up bravery, confidence, the sureness that everything is meant to be.

It consumes the idea that tomorrow is new; the idealistic purpose for coming days. Looming tears dare not streak my face. I’m too old, too hardened for all that.

If the faintness of heart or mind or humanity does succeed me and a stripe rolls down my cheek, I am weak. I am indulging in my femininity. I am on my period and prone to emotionality.

Spoiling my brain with this incessant weeping— breaking rules, building stereotypes, why can’t I be stronger? Level headed. Headstrong in my resolve to be sturdy and resilient. So looming tears do not streak my face

and the red hole grows warmer.