the River of forgetfulness

By the middle of the week,

I am tired of being a person.

So on Thursdays,

give me space to die a little in private.

I don’t want to go to the grocery store,

fold laundry, wash a pan,

or cut up artichokes for a salad.

Let me sit quietly in a room alone with my

knees

folded to one side.

I will retreat into myself,

where I have resided obscurely through

immeasurable and contrasting lives,

all disorganized and stacked on top of

each other in the pit of my stomach.

Sometimes,  they spill out of my mouth

like a sheet

of ice because of you and your nagging fingers

pulling at my bottom lip,

hungry for me to tell you what I think before

I know how to say it.

~ Madisen Kuhn