Flowers

Spent like coffee grounds, poured over and poured out
Discarded feelings drip down drains all day; keeping a closed mouth feels better in some ways - but not always
You knock in the morning from the wilderness daymares - and I open the door, you say: "Is there room in the inn here?"
I want to say no, because I'm scared of what you'll let in but -
In my depression there are many rooms
Each day the antagonist of whatever this is sews another stitch into the sides of my mouth
And one day it’s going to be enough to keep the air out - but for now:
Wrath like flowers, upon my brow