Rot with manners | Sreedhari Desai

rot with manners

it comes out of me
like bad medicine,
like something the body tried to bury
and failed.

rancid.
putrid.
yellow.
proof that i kept it in there
like a promise
to the worst part of myself.

i didn’t write it down
because i thought silence
was maturity,
because i thought swallowing it
made me strong,
because people love a quiet person
until the quiet starts to smell.

so i walked around
with my mouth shut
and a bright infection
under the skin.

years of smiling
with my teeth clenched,
years of “i’m fine”
like a cheap bandage
on a deep, stupid cut.

and now the words
come pouring out…

not poetry, not wisdom,
just discharge,
just the truth liquefied,
just the body doing
what it does
when it finally decides
to live.

it’s ugly work.
it ruins shirts.
it scares away
the clean-handed.

but i keep letting it run
because the alternative
is rot with manners.

one day
i’ll be healed.

the wound will dry up.
the air will stop tasting like metal.
the skin will close
without a story attached.

and i’ll sit there,
quiet,
not because i’m holding back…
but because there’s nothing left
to leak.