My bucket of shame is black.
It's made of clay.
Filled with tar,
mistakes my lungs can't seem wheeze anymore.
I cough them out
into this filthy little bucket.
I'm trapped in a dirty bathroom
of an upside down studio apartment.
I clutch the bucket tightly.
I remember your name,
and feel like I've swallowed glass.
I cough violently,
and spit.

Sawyer S.