Someday

Two houses, no people. My sheets smell like bleach. The least I can do is forget about you. I heard someone say, “I don’t date, I don’t do any of that.” And it becomes my mantra. 

Summers I’m most likely to think about my trauma. I think I’m healed. I don’t sit around crying anymore. I narrow my eyes. Or do I?

My to-do list includes working like a dog, changing into street clothes after my shift, and gazing into the infinite abyss as if this should all make sense to me someday.