Rotten Fruit in the Fridge

There’s a plum in the back of the fridge

that’s been there for three months.

I haven’t thrown it out.

I open the door, look at it,

close the door.

I don’t know what that says about me

but it says something.

I still Google people I used to love

just to make sure they didn’t die

without telling me.

Not because I’d do anything about it.

Just because I want to know

if I’m still allowed to be angry.

When I say I’m tired,

I don’t mean sleepy.

I mean I’m worn thin from holding in

every little thing I think would make people leave.

The real me is ugly in places.

Like a house with no couch.

Like a voicemail you delete before the beep.

Sometimes I pretend I’m on a talk show

explaining my side of the story.

Imaginary applause.

Imaginary understanding.

In real life, I nod a lot.

People like that about me.

I get jealous of people who cry in public.

Their faces go red and wet,

and nobody calls them dramatic.

I once bit my cheek so hard

to stop myself from sobbing at a Denny’s

that I tasted metal

for the rest of the night.

I tell people I don’t want kids.

But the truth is

I don’t trust myself not to mess one up.

I yell at dogs when I’m tired.

I’ve ignored texts from people who said “I need you.”

I think I believe in God,

but only on elevators.

My voicemail is full.

Not with messages—

with the pressure of pretending

someone might leave one.

Some nights I lie on the floor

like a crime scene

and wait for a reason to get up.

None comes.

Still, I brush my teeth.

Still, I feed the cat.

And tomorrow

I’ll open the fridge,

see the plum,

close it again.