a poem, of sorts, that was in my head this morning:
I try to be clever
but I exhale crumpled moth wings
A brain can ache
like a stomach can ache –
it’s when you can’t escape your own self
The other night I went to fold the laundry
and I didn’t want to do it
and I didn’t want to not do it –
how can this be?
my biggest fear is not death,
but being sent into outer space
to a place where I discover bodies do not die.