“How frequently has melancholy and even misanthropy
taken possession of me…“
-Mary Wollstonecraft

My life is the size of a Cheerio—
brittle as oats,
something missing in the center.
Rooms cramped and dismal, 
dust mites lurk in every crevice.
My life’s soul is the same as everyone else’s soul
but without the music—only a base track
humming with the low vibration
of an electric fence. It grows moody
and remote the way dry winter air
cracks skin. Not a single songbird on a wire
but crows, crows, crows—wait, now even those crows
have flown. My life rode a tram, jets, the Goodyear Blimp,
once even a pig. It wore jeans, mittens, ate an apple.
My life made love, waved its arms and danced. 
But at some point its gates clanked shut.
Each life is different. Some have larger lives,
some smaller—those I envy. On Instagram
one woman is happy to be losing friends.
She is enjoying time to herself. If only.
I tell my life—therapy will help.
I’m convinced my life is about to sort itself out.
My mirror shows a smile.