Yield

I wanted to be the person who bakes.

Instead, I’m the person who breaks

the jar on the floor at midnight.

The sludge is dark and heavy and slow.

It doesn't care where it has to go.

It inches toward the gap by the stove,

a thick, black river I can't quite move.

I’m standing here with a paper towel,

feeling the weight of my own sour growl.

I’m moving through my life at this pace,

sticky and stuck in the same damn place.