Closer

CLOSER

every year i get a little closer

to it, siding the half-rotten

avocado with a pizza-

cutter over the sink

so as not to wash

another dish—

I used to call it depression

maybe it is

laziness

my country insists

on the honor of working yourself to

death

more & more

I think of it

as utility: every motion

precious & priced

more than I can afford

to spare:

the grease in my hair

the stains on the sofa

the numbness spreading from my throat:

all choices, choices 

allowing me to wake up

one more day 

than i intended 

when i was seventeen

and counting down the months

i thought i’d live

i didn’t know what living is:

this strict ration 

of self so hidden 

you can barely sense it

even alone, you don’t dare look

for fear of what

looking might incite:

out of sight, out of reach

of tedium’s talons, clutching

it whispers i am here

you learn not to whisper back

you just feel it 

feel the quick heat of it

and spoon disappointment into your mouth

day after day after

no no no

it’s almost comforting

in its familiarity 

and you do not

no you do not 

allow yourself to know 

or even suspect

there’s still a part of yourself 

whispering i am here

you can’t kill me I’m

counting down the months

the days hours breaths