Inside me is a 

boiling brass kettle

screaming on a hot stove. 

As if a frantic teapot

Could be contained 

without spilling over. 

As if the shrill cry of a 

steaming pot bawling 

on the burners 

could be muffled. 

Inside me is tiny China.

Teacups clack 

against matching plates.

I mean to control 

my tremors and cries. 

I was raised 

by soothing chamomile,

but I never liked 

the aftertaste.

My mother taught 

my mouth to close. 

Would you rather

spend the rest of eternity

with your body trapped 

on a blazing burner or

with hot water 

drowning you 

from the inside out?