The sun hasn’t rolled its way over to this side of the earth yet.

The sky is still a massive welt over me,

and I’m waiting for the light the way a stray waits for bread—

hopeful, but half-resigned.

I don’t like showing up to work in the dark.

But the truth is, it’s the only thing that will have me.

I’m on the wrong side of the fence,

knuckles hooked in wire,

staring into a version of life that once felt possible.

The Gatsby side.

I’ve been there—

champagne, pressed suits,

the glimmering distraction of wealth.

But even then, people stayed people,

which is to say, flawed, brittle, selfish.

Now, resentful of the life I ended up with,

I press play on a comedy podcast.

They say you should walk into a room laughing.

I wonder if the laughter is supposed to be armor or invitation.

Either way, I give it a try.

The sound curls around me

a little like watching babies watch pratfalls—

pure, reflexive joy.

I don’t know if I’m doing it for myself

or for everyone else,

shielding them from the smell of my discontent.

But for a moment, the act works.

I’m lighter.

The air doesn’t weigh so much.

Still, I know the truth of it:

this is how every day goes.

No time to breathe.

No room to stretch.

Just hustle, jokes, and the faint smile

I rehearse in the car mirror.

And yet—

this is how I climb,

hand over hand,

out of the basement I built for myself.