I am incurably blue these days, heavily, ineptly waltzing through lopsided days in my cumbersome skin. I come home to the sinking feeling of underachievement and wake to the shallow breath of too much left. I read the flourescent poems on the bus home each day; I watch your calls come up on the telephone and let the water rise in my fast-filling voicemail. There is a fist that holds nothing, hits nothing, but still never releases. When did I become such a disappointing iteration of your hopes? And when did I first haunt myself with so many specters to prove away?
When my father first got hearing aids, he was angry with everything, and he’d never say why. When he returned them, the audiologist told him that they didn’t need adjusting, he did. “You’ve become accustomed to your quiet world.” So maybe that’s me, too. I didn’t anticipate needing this much courage to take a phone call, or stand up in the morning.
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