Trouble
is a knock on the door with no response

Trouble
is an unanswered phone call with no return

Trouble
is that email I never sent you
That still sits amongst drafts
of other significant fleetings
That I will never dispense

Trouble
is something that
I can’t seem to handle

Trouble breathes
Out my pores
When my lungs
Can no longer suck in

Trouble seethes
At the cusp of us
When our hands touch
But we don’t hold on

My voice shakes
As I try to talk
over the bubbling
bile that is building
into fermented following feelings
That I can never tell you

because I’m afraid
that you’ll think I’m crazy
or that I’m too much all at once,

that you’ll run away
and never look back

Trouble
is that distant echo
through the hollow space
between us
even in my dreams

sometimes I tell myself to run away from trouble,
that it’s not worth the pain,

but maybe I’m afraid
that trouble is not just
a buried broken barrel
with a few leaks
like this one here

Maybe I’m afraid
that
I
am trouble

’cause I can’t seem to handle myself.