I saw a runner jog past my window, on the dark and empty street below me
and I envied him his freedom
to go running at 9:31 p.m. without a care in the world
I’d wanted to go for a run, too, today
but I was working and when I was done, it was dark already,
so I stayed put in my little warm room,
my safe cocoon, from which I see
the moon sometimes, often in
curious places,
and runners sometimes, racing below my window
both reminding me of my smallness
against an oppressive sky,
and both making me resent them briefly for the ease with which they
move
I am a heavenly body too,
you know,
I don’t only have one,
I am one, too,
I want to scream, at no one in particular, maybe the moon (or the runner),
so I’ll stay put in my little room of light, and dream of days yet to come
of feeling safe in this body and these streets
below my window
and up above, running on the moon, perhaps,
until then, I’ll write my anger onto sheets of white,
hoping it will turn into
blotting paper,
one of these days,
swallowing up my rancour and my
fears