Its winter again,

and I’m trying to conceal

the fact that I have gnawed

my nails bloody.

‍

My sides pang guilty,

from my morning ritual

of quiet dry heaves.

A painful secret.

‍

My heartbeat has

lost its usual rhythm,

striving to defeat Lucky Debonair

at Santa Anita.

‍

Shallow,

slow breaths betray me

and I am bombarded with

a million voices of concern.

‍

I used to have curly hair,

before I packed up my ford

and drove over the mountains

four thousand kilometers.

‍

My doctor said

a combination of stress

and vitamin deficiencies

can scare a ringlet straight.

‍

Maybe If I had

come for something useful

they would stop asking what

I’m gonna do.

‍

But I chose letters

and words and things

the value of which is subjective.

Nothing to write home about.

‍

Home is frozen,

but not my original home

where it is 21 degrees

‍