The other day my therapist asked what felt so unmanageable about loneliness

I was eating congee in Chinatown because

I always order safe foods at restaurants

and Joan Didion ate only congee after her husband died

so I tried hers

 

I was

nursing my porridge and noting my flaws

while trying not to stare at the large

bearded man across the way

ordering a second mound of

pork, rice, and cabbage

doused in soy sauce and forked faster than my single bowl

To be fair, I was licking the spoon

for a good forty five minutes

so my counseled call could stay in the warm, for

         I don’t do too well in the cold

It’s my eyes that go first

I see 

Falling 

like dead

petals

like soft

rolls of skin

like the edges of space

where the brain can’t reach 

or the other

end of a wormhole

​

If I am whole

no one will           need

to take care

of                            me

 

How did I get here?