Bottling

 

I’m a bottler.

I bottle things.

Inside myself.

 

The bottles are hidden.

Sealed and stowed.

I hope they don’t explode.

 

The bottles are full,

of tears and torments,

rages and pains.

 

Stacked in glass.

Delicately, one on top of the other.

Clinking.

 

A rumble too far.

A jostle too much.

A shove.

 

A tip or slip in the wrong direction,

they all come tumbling down,

shattering on the floor.

 

The glass cuts.

The contents spilling, flooding,

nearly causing my drowning.

 

The broken bottles.

Glass all over the place.

Dampness seeping everywhere.

 

I’ll sweep.

I’ll mop.

I’ll clean.

 

Find the unbroken bottles.

Get new ones to fill.

Stack them again.