The absurdity of my life
waves its fingers at the edge of my vision.
I refuse to turn my head
to look at why I’m still here.

Months in my new calendar were mispaginated,
half of July sewn in the back of the calendar,
part of November floated somewhere in a group of blank pages.

I snipped the brown thread binding apart
and regrouped the sets of pages,
used pink embroidery thread to sew the calendar back together.
There, now, wasn’t that clever? 
An attempt to salvage
and control the rest of my days
by numbering them
and writing down appointments birthdays holidays plans for the future–
Ha! future!–
creating structure for myself
so there is some semblance of meaning
in what otherwise would be
an indeterminate number of days
of waking up
and breathing
and going back to sleep–
I shoved it all from the periphery,
to the back of my brain
where I can’t see fully it. 

I unfocused my eyes,
pricked my finger,
jolting my attention
back to the pink thread,
the silver needle,
the first entry in my calendar–
a spot of blood.