BP: If Only

I have no idea what this bad poem is a result of, only that it is dated Jan. 16 in my notebook. Apparently something made me upset then. What makes me upset now? THAT I ONCE WROTE THIS GARBAGE.

Tonight I feel like water,
the water that wishes
it could roll down my cheek.

It would tumble with the ease
of gravity, until it fell and
splattered against the pillow.

It would leave a stain. And
I’d be able to see the trail
on my cheek, in the mirror.

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