A thought bubble or something

I know you think I’m weak

That if you cut me open I’d bleed pink lemonade

Me and my voice, we’re small, that’s true

I think that’s why I prefer myself in ink

Because on paper my words are big and beautiful and don’t fit in your plastic containers

When you look at me, do you expect me to

bow for the ants under our sneakers?

To get on my knees so they can run around

inside their castles of dust?

I can want to die and not wish to stain my carpet red can’t I?