How to Get a Cold

Raining critiques,

dripping through my brain,

spilling out of my mouth,

soaking the floor.

The water doesn't hydrate anyone,

I don't get to drink it;

it makes me thirsty.

It’s nothing like a sprinkler in the summer,

or a soft spring shower that cools you,

this water is ice cold and cloudy,

diseased with hate.

When I see what I have spilled into the world,

the guilt pelts me like acid,

burning my umbrella.

Seeing how wet the world already is,

I kneel down to clean up my mess,

hoping nobody will slip on it,

and douse themselves in groundless judgement. 

In my task of tardy morality,

in my delayed reflection,

I wind up drenched in my own pollution.