September

I know I could do better.
I could go outside, get some sun. Instead,
I watch from my window as the snow falls
as if God is grating parmesan
over the city: Say when. I’ve never
had the chance to love desperately,
but I’ve felt rage worm its way through
my stomach like a parasite. So many things
I cannot say aloud: It would be wrong to bring
a child into the world to watch me suffer, to suffer
with me won’t win me any friends.
Am I worse off than anyone else,
though? I sip my dark roast, spell my
name in carrots on the counter. I am
no longer, at least, a monument
to damage: my ribcage a coliseum,
its broken edges jabbing
at the sky. The faint sounds
of Earth, Wind, and Fire play
in my kitchen, and I smile,
even shimmy a little. None of us
will last forever. Someday,
maybe soon, everything will ache
a little less.