I sell my knives
to the ocean at night,
trading the past
for a blue and hungry future.
I left my resentment
in a to-go box
at a Bennigan’s
off I-4 in Orlando.
I dodge dumb-dumbs
in crowded crosswalks,
nearly kissed
by a lucky Lyft driver.
Now, I’m down
to two choices:
live or die.
It feels like last April
in my brain,
but also like September 2004—
stuck, spinning, sprinting.
We all get
the same two doors:
give up or give in.
I am smaller now,
but somehow bigger too.
The days crawl,
but I fly.