Pressure Under Glass

The jar sat swollen, lid pushed up

like a belly about to burst.

I twisted it, expecting silence,

but out came a sharp sour wave.

Red flakes floated in cloudy liquid,

that smell—like secrets rotting slowly.

It hit me—something bubbling beneath,

tensions I’d been bottling, too.

The jar hissed as I opened it,

a warning I’d ignored too long,

something alive, wild and invasive,

pressing against the glass of my skin.