I don’t have enough quiet for this
Inside me
All this sobriety
Filled up with twenty-two pages
Of HR files
Work days that end at ten
My eyes get heavy
As evenings slide by
There’s the heat pack, the couch
The cat asleep at my side
And that’s good
I take another blurry Polaroid
Fifteen-year-old me would call it art
Thirty-one-year-old would call it
A waste of expensive film
But
One day
I’ll want to remember
With Love,
Natalie
