pretty sure feelings

Feeling pretty sure I’m not capable of loving another person—

except myself—and even that feels iffy.

Or maybe I only offer conditional love,

the kind no one would sign up for 

if they actually read the terms and conditions.

A few poor souls skipped over the user agreement.

Maybe my brain is miswired.

More likely, I’m just a selfish little brat.

I get so focused on a tomorrow that may never come,

I end up screwing over a perfectly good today.

Maybe I’m not all that bad—

just undisciplined. Unfocused. Distracted.

By what?

Oh, just my own inner thoughts, of course.

My feelings.

My feelings.

I’m feeling a lot.

I feel enmeshed with the strangest things—

strings I can feel tugging, but no one seems to be pulling.

Or if they are, they act like it’s nothing.

Alas, I must be tied to stupid strings.

Or worse—deceitful ones.

And I don’t think they even know it.

Yes, stupid strings.

I feel like mashed potatoes strained through lace.

Like an orange peel left behind after a hipster boy

plucks it from his beer 

and hands it to the peckish girlfriend

who’s been waiting too damn long to eat.

I feel like this is never-ending.

I feel like the other side of last summer’s hit song.

Ugh. My feelings.

My feelings! My feelings!

Can’t we table that?

Like I’m the only person on Earth with feeeeeeelinnnnngs.

Like mine are just a touch extra special.

Gosh.

If I’m not going to live in this perfectly nice life

I’ve made for myself—

if I’m not going to participate in it—

then I should just go off and do something else.

Why not?

No one’s holding me back.

It’s me.

I’m the one insisting I stay.

Let’s look at the facts.

Let’s pull up bank accounts.

Let’s inventory the pantry.

Let’s refold the pants in the oak dresser.

Let’s check the garden.

Let’s pick some lettuce.

My God—this life, this home, this little hole—

is the life I always wanted for me.

Hark!

Hear that? Shh. Listen carefully...

My God, do you hear my brain whirring like a machine again?

Isn’t it clear by now?

We go through this every month.

Oh yes. Honey, we see it now.

A month ago, I was the same.

And the month before that, too.

A therapist might say, “Ha! A cycle we must break.”

A best friend, “I’m so sorry you’re going through this again.”

But me?

I say: it’s the pattern of the moon and the womb.

I must be in the shadow work again.

Oh—wait. It’s just ovulation.

So my eyes run astray

(Ashtray, Ass-Tray, A Stray)

toward a future I may never know.

Next week, I’ll wonder if the cards I pulled foretold the day,

or if I shaped the day around what the cards had to say.

Pretty sure you could set a clock with my feelings.