Worse
This year, I will be worse.
More talking during shows.
More wiping my hands on my thighs
instead of finding a napkin.
I will not learn any new skills,
I will forget a few I already have.
Last year I knew how to make an origami crane
and hand it, sheepish, to the first kind eyes I met.
This year I can only crumple the paper
and hand it to the nearest trashcan.
I’m buying lottery tickets
and taking it personally if I don’t win.
I’m not talking to anyone I have a crush on.
If I like you, you’re dead to me.
I’m method acting for a role
that I won’t explain,
but I can tell you my character
doesn’t do the dishes.
I’m changing my text-tone
to the sound of glass breaking
and keeping the volume high.
It’s only downhill from here, babygirl.
Last year I was Sisyphus.
This year I’m the boulder
and I’m crushing all the snails
I can on my way down.
I’m going to let all my organs
roam around my body
into whatever arrangement
gives me the most heartburn.
I’m writing down my intentions for the year
and they are as follows:
Less bridge, more troll.
Less money, more problems.
Less hot, more bothered.
I need to get to the bottom of this nasty pit.
I am leaving the agony of growth
to swim in this stagnant water.
I will not stop until the leeches are all full.
Last year I tried to hold onto all the good.
Last year I held my breath hoping
the next one I took would be toothless.
Last year I held love in my hands
and remembered how much ash weighs.
This year I will be worse.
* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are producs of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
