My emotion spreads over the plate
like liquid too thin to hold itself together,
It drips off the edges and streams down
sticky as heated honey

See, I am not dead,
nor am I middle-aged, middle-class stodgy.
I haven’t honeycombed my feelings off
and sealed them tightly where you’ll never see them,
so I can act like I can’t even feel them,
act so dull that I convince myself

See, I ooze, I drip —
but what good does it do me?
How will I clean this all up
and get on with my day?

©Wendy Mulhern
April 7, 2015