How We Spill, by Renee Mies

They said some things don’t mix.
Left it at that.
No diagram, no warning.
Just the shimmer
where something went wrong.

One clings—
slow, dense, forgetful.
Moves like it remembers
too much.

The other runs—
floods basements,
erases edges,
vanishes before it’s named.

We stir.
We always stir.
As if motion makes meaning.
As if a vortex
is a solution.

One always rises.
The other sinks.
There’s order,
even in collapse.

We bottle both.
Call them by other names—
fuel,
flow,
need,
control.

But every system leaks.

It’s not accident.
It’s design.
Thin walls.
Tired seals.
Too much pressure
behind every decision.

No siren.
No burst.
Just the gleam.
Just the spread.
Just the lie:
We’ll clean it up.

There are no clean separations.
Only the illusion
of containment.

The surface says calm.
Underneath—
everything pulls away.

You watch the swirl.
Say it’s beautiful.
Say it’s not your fault.
Say it’s natural.

You forget the smell.
You forget
how long it takes
to fade.

–

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Renee lives in the Chicago suburbs and is part Pastry Chef, part Poetess, and part Patient Advocate at a Cancer Hospital. She is a hobby Poetess and lover of Greek Mythology. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, camping and keeping up with her husband and four children.

© 2025, Renee Mies