Weeds

Welcome to my house,

explore what’s within.

It is a shell,

doors barred,

shut in.

An expression of me,

with worn out paint.

Depression is the friend,

who overwelcomes his stay.

Comes over whenever he wants to,

eats the food in my fridge.

Pity is the roomate,

that’s behind on three months rent.

He never leaves his room,

he just sits there and vents.

Self-esteem is the ugly baby I locked in my basement.

Wailing for attention in front of a broken mirror,

furious with its existence.

Anger is my ex-boyfriend,

who never stops sending me texts.

He shows up at the worst times imaginable,

like when I’m trying to have dinner in peace.

Jealousy is the backyard neighbor peeping over the fence.

Sadness is the hanging fern that I’ve overwatered.

Confusion is the faucet that sputters… stops… sputters…

Happiness is the family having a cookout down the street,

a hard working father kissed by a loving mother, with two kids snickering at his apron that says, “Kiss the cook.”

Laughter is the librarian whose rosy cheeks lift as she giggles under her breath.

And hope is that fucking weed growing in the yard

And I swear that goddamned thing won't die

It’s been cut, chopped, pulled, slashed, and stomped

And still it comes up again

Its yellow petals blooming under the sun

I hate when people ask me

Who I am and where I’m from

Because no matter how dark the story

No matter how dull and dim

That when I open my mouth

Those weeds come out.