What Shape is Helpful?

When I walk into a room I apologize

to the air first

then the chairs

then the idea of noise.

The walls hum like teeth

grinding through drywall

they know I'm here again

trying not to take up too much
oxygen.

So I fold myself into usefulness.

I carry boxes, I nod, I listen

so hard my ears sweat.

I am a sponge in a flood,

soaking up everyone else’s ache

so I don’t have to feel mine.

People love me when I’m dissolving.

They say thank you,

and I say you’re welcome,

and my ribs clap like they’ve been seen.

For a second.

But there’s decay in the rinse cycle.

I scrub too hard

and my kindness starts to smell like vinegar.

I think I’m saving them,

but really I'm just collecting

what leaks out

their sadness, my pride, their relief, my guilt

a soup of good intentions

simmering into poison.

Then comes the silence again.

The air blinks.

I am too loud.

I am too soft.

I am a wet towel on the floor

waiting for someone to step over me.

So I start again

selfless, hopeful,

hands open like a trap.

I give until it circles back

into wanting to be noticed for it.

The loop hums,

the itch begins,

the room fills with static-

and I smile so wide

my face creaks,

like a door no one meant to open.