Every corner has remnants of you
The ghosts of tape and laughter and tears
Of breakfasts and jeopardy.
And yes.
I know.
One day I’ll be okay.
But for now
It hurts
To watch a decade disappear
As you carry on
Like I never existed.

I had forgotten
The **** steam from a sewer grate
Nature’s heat lamp
And the regulars you see
When you’re walking the streets
And I hope they can find a clean mattress.

I don’t have time
For this young man’s disease
They told me it was Type II, at first.
“The good one.”
The “one for fat people.”
Medical jargon.

Not even three months later.
“Your body is tearing itself apart.”

Type 1.
A1c.
Glucose monitor.
Metformin.
Spironolactone.
Crying.
Writing down numbers.
Going to doctors.
And a ***** on the finger
Two times a day.

And if that ***** is a little high, a little low, and not juuuuust right,
I take a pill.
And I turn a dial.
And I stick a needle in the part of my body I never want to pay attention to:
The fatty part.
And my mom calls me worried every day.


Counting carbs instead of calories
And trying to wake up early to do a half hour of yoga before life keeps spinning and spinning.
Trying to “meal prep.”
I rarely succeed.

I don’t usually tell the truth….
I’m doing better.
But Sometimes I forget on purpose.
Because it’s annoying.
And I’m tired.
And then I’m shaking
And then I’m hungry
And then I eat too much
And then I feel like ****
And then I have to walk
And then I run out of time
And then
And then
And then
And then
And if I could go back
And do it again
I’d probably eat all those fries

I’d like to tell future me that their success was a long time coming.

I’d like to tell past me to chill the **** out for a moment.

I’d like to tell now me that this wasn’t my fault.
Even if I don’t know if I believe that.

I know.
I should be excited
To open this play
Tomorrow.
But I still can’t help
But feel like an outsider
And I just kind of want to sit home.

Slowly and sweetly, the woodpecker sighs
And a drip drip dripping comes from the blues in your eyes
The whisk whisk whisking of a whiskey night out
Faint honeysuckle kisses, gone 20 miles south
"I'll save you" she whispers, as sweet as can be.
And flies away.




Next time.