like envy, we breathe color into the day;

surrounded by depressing jests and

exhausting circumstance. 

writhing is for the brave.

three days of spilling salt in uncontrolled quantities

locks your face into a broad expanse of stillness; i 

can't see you 

behind the glass in your eyes.

there is a numb response in a shade of monotone.

the body has declared war. loose synapses mean

tears, basal function resigns without a word meaning lungs

forget air, heart forgets blood, sinus pressure...

and i admire my bedsheets for maintaining their pleasant 

shade of green. i have

minutes, and fingers, and large rolls of newsprint

carrying the scents of a defiant adolescent

(exhaustion, striving, burnt cigarettes).

it must be-

postpartum depression.

maybe i'll be famous when i'm dead

wishing i had kept my life a secret.

and you:

maybe someday you'll find the pretty green 

in the weave of the bedsheets.