dishes dirty
dishwashers empty
the thought that somethings wrong with me
forgetting to water the plants, prescription refills, time apart or holidays, the urge to draw Xs across my thighs, the five blocks between my house and hers, it’s hot, it’s cold, it’s raining, split ends and dark roots, the nicotine addiction that sometimes holds its breath but never really dies or the urge to put something in my mouth, the empty underwear drawer.
i once played a word game with a boy
he fed me hints like
it happens over and over, keeps going forever, you can never stop it
the answer was Groundhog Day, 1993
i said breathing
i had forgotten the category
i had to drink again.
