my father hasn’t been himself, i’m piling clothes on each shelf while the cold is attaching its lifeless embrace around my thighs that are too big and a stomach too normally abnormal. i write about living, i try to live for writing; always end up living for nothing. maybe the ache seems like a home, or a house i just passed on the open road. constantly familiar since a younger version of me opened the vault and it slipped out. my eyes haven’t watered the flowers underneath my bed since the summer came and went. love came knocking at the front door; the latch wouldn’t open up. now every car makes it look as if it’s him behind every wheel. i pass that house with a sore throat— a lump in the back, something’s unraveling inside of me. i am neither tall nor strong, every sadness almost takes the breath out of me and i haven’t been like myself, but when have i ever?