I've end it in my father’s kitchen.
2am and I’m against the counter top, popping
Keebler Elves one right after the other like
I'll never be full.
And I wont. Not tonight. Life is stagnant water
that I’m drinking. Easy to believe standing here
with the constant of his snoring up above—
the hum from the fridge and that sound, that
still air sound—all of it drifting through my ears:
the perfect background for static thought.
Thought that takes me nowhere but into ifs and maybe—
atomic blasts of moments across my eyes,
of rewinding life and changing details—you know why?
To feel the slow, creeping pain of regret—
the gulping down of stagnant water—
the imagined elation and satisfaction of getting it right.
Unsettling.
And like a giant thunderclap the question comes:
Am I unhappy?
In any case, I've done something I'm ashamed of
and my surroundings mirror it, or me, or I
force it on those things that are things
to be consumed because I am unknown.
There is a why.
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