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