A day till a month.

by amy sharp


I am walking around my well-manicured neighborhood looking for others.

People like me. But there are no middle-aged women dragging grief like a blanket down the sidewalk. There are only people on porches who are laughing and the sun is shining. There are families walking with toddlers in wagons and they are tan and beautiful. I am the only one who has drank two cold beers at in the middle of the day. I am dressed like a teen goth. I look like my sadness. I am my sadness.
I don’t call my friends because this feels very awkward and something that should be done in private.

This feels like I can’t get it all the way out of me.
I am sure the librarian silently judges me from my stack of reserved self-help books that I pick up. I have known this person for a long time. Familiar strangers. And she knows I am fucked up by all of the books I reserve. Feminist theory books touching diet books touching poetry collections and now this. I am ready to read words that will make me less afraid of everything. I want to be bulletproof. Strong again. I want you not to be dead. I look the librarian in the eye like I love her. Her green eyes look away. People don’t like it when you want them. I want her. Like I want her to take me in her arms and hold me and tell me she knows everything will be ok. In the middle of the library. Where every story has ever been told. Where anything is possible.