Milena Michels

The landscape changes, but we’re still sitting in a car.

I write, delete, write again.

Close the laptop, push it back. Curl up in bed and doom scroll a little bit.

Sleepless nights and sleepy days. When my brain should rest it’s anything but. Too many things to say, it’s a hard practice to remain quiet.

In the few hours of sleep, I entertained a stranger, lost track of Dora, and wrestled a demon. Milena Michels.

I know exactly what these dreams mean.

Listen hard, people will tell you who they are.

The plants I pruned are sprouting new growth. The ones untouched are still flowered purple. A deer ate my Amaranth bush down to the nubs.

A ground-squirrel keeps finding a way into the garden, on the hunt for tomatoes.

The onions I pulled and left to dry on the fire pit have a few greens gone missing. Not enough to miss.

The helium balloon that blew into my yard is still fighting the good fight, standing upright.

My lemon tree hasn’t recovered from being planted yet. I guess you shouldn’t let demons touch life you want to flourish.

The landscape changes, but we’re still sitting in a car.

I said I wouldn’t get a dog again, go traveling a bit.

And changed my mind.

I said I’d censor myself out of respect until they’re dead.

And it’s making me sick inside.

It’s just fine.