(This is going to be one of those things
where you see the way linebreaks can permeate
a person's writing.

Get used to it.
Don't think of it
as poetry.)

I feel dry.
People keep throwing buckets into me
and all they get is this empty, hollow sound,
and I resonate.
And once everyone knows
no one throws their buckets,
and I'm just this hole
that doesn't know
how empty
or deep she is.

The sky's forgotten how to rain
and everything I know is thirsty.

I'm working on scaling the cliff
of melodrama. I thought I had a good handle,
but I'm beginning to think otherwise.
I want to walk along the edge
and see the bottom.
Bear with me as I figure it out.
It might take a while. Conquering a fear
of heights isn't an overnight sort of thing...

I go between being melodramatic
and being a vacuum.

I can only think in linebreaks
and I have twenty pages of prose
due in a week.

I hardly know what it means
to open up anymore.
How can a well,
a hole,
open any wider
than its own mouth?
What kind of people
don't see where they're going
and fall into manholes
(-- the scene of their own,
untimely deaths.
It was one of those NPR stories
I heard on the way to school,
so understated
that it overwhelmed me).

Sometimes all I want is a weather request box.
Dear sky, can it please not rain tomorrow?
<3 glynnis.

People call and things change
and people change
and things call
and sometimes I don't know
what it's like to breathe anymore.
I have emotional apnea.

Wait, what does that even mean?