subtext

I should go pick up some milk,

but I don’t want to go outside.

I feel like I should feel guilty;

and, I do, but don’t know why.

I write sentences starting with there.

There has to be a better way to begin.

The chihuahua sleeps on my lap.

There’s the excuse I need not to move.

Memory raises dead regrets and trauma

until these mundane tasks of my day

can no longer breathe with ease,

and any agency strangles itself

in the detritus left in the tidal sand

of past indecision and hesitation.

(June 25, 2025)