Brown Neck Bottled Malt

​My brother tells me

“Don’t think about it too much.”

Yet I can only

Think about it again

And again

And again.

Think about how the words won’t flow,

Spill over the glass of my mouth

Onto the page,

Soaking in my heart along the way.

When I can feel my thoughts as my words,

As they flow down my agate skin onto my pen,

Some go unnoticed

In the desolate maelstrom of my mind,

Dismissed

Forgotten and lost to the empty void.

Yet it is this same void that inspires me,

Regurgitating the words I used to say aloud,

The words that slid down my glass neck,

Bitter as those that spoke them.

You stand proud with

Your unbreakable barrier,

Not sealed but

Empty.

And me, a

Bottled up brown neck

So full yet I can only barely

Stretch open my throat to give you these words.

I’m sorry

That you don’t understand me.

Don’t understand the pain I’m in,

The pressure that builds up from never speaking;

Glass cracking

But never breaking

Because I won’t let it.

Won’t let out the torrent of words

Even once.

Letting out a drop will open the rest

And I don’t know

If I’m strong enough to pull it back in.

So I’ll sit,

A bottled up brown neck

Sealed tight at the lips

Tapping on the lid

To keep out the bubbles

That threaten to break me.

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