The air in this house is spiked,
The tension palpable, expectant—Insidious,
It sneaks in like smoke
Seeping through the crack under the door,

My door with the roses around,
They should bare their thorns but I quietly tell them to bloom,
To raise their faces to the sun, to be their best selves,
They smile sweetly, non-committal in their nonchalance

They know how to sway with the breeze,
To bend to the will of the storm,
I do not,
My roots are shallow, my branches brittle,
I am at sea, cast adrift—
For I lose him when she comes

I lean against the kitchen sink,
The taps of empathy turned full on, splashing around my feet,
Eroding the fragile ground on which I stand,

I roll up my sleeves, ready for the leeches to latch
It renders me quiet,
I have opinions but they’re futile here,
They belong elsewhere

I fantasise about what I might have said before I learned the rules,
A stitch keeps my mouth tight shut,
I crack myself open like a nut,
I bare my fruit, it falls on stoney ground,

So I listen carefully, struggling to keep my head above the water,
Swimming in concentric circles trying to escape the rip tide,
Drowning in a narcissist’s paradox.