Plugged

I am gathering up my boredom,
My hurt,
My sticky loneliness that coats this room,
My depression,
My pride--there are still a few scattered bits around.

I am rolling it all together,
Firing it with the heat of
My anger

I will shape it as a plug, a cork to stop up
This hole in my centre.
I'm tired of my will leaking out, the wind
Blowing through.

I'm tired of bleeding.

Since your knife was the last
To reopen the hole, perhaps
I'll name the plug in your
Honour.