summer is not a season of sleep

sometimes I think I’ve lived too long

when I see my life on paper

a list of accomplishments

not made, risks

not taken.

if life is linear, mine is a downward curve

over almost before it’s begun,

weighed down

by fervent hope

and frustrated expectation

(optimism, my deepest curse).

my dreams are not a thing with feathers

they curdle within me,

unspoken, and

if I opened my window to breathe them free

they would evaporate

like tissue paper

in the humid city air

crumble into dust and

decay.

my future is the mousetrap to my life

do I take the jaws

or the poison?