Every year around the holidaysthe people birth me.Bring me to life through inkin notebooks, on fridges,maybe even the corner of the freezersometimes on a half-broken post-it notecrumpled inside a winter coat pocketusually at the back of minds of students, scholars, and workersI bump to the top of Facebook feeds next to a hashtag Humblecrawling with excitementmarking the beginningof my caterpillar phase.Imagine my surprise when by February,I am lonely, lonely, lonelySome picky gym ratsmay even say I am dyingI am an orphan in a notebookI have fallen off the fridgeI was found crumpled up inside a winter coat pocketand am now in the trash--I was never found inside a winter coat pocketand am now dropped into a puddle on a busy street corner.I tumbled down to the dark places of Facebook feedswhere only the occasional nosy Mom finds meI am buried in the minds of students, scholars, and workersburied under things more importantburied under the exact routine that they had beforenever transforming, never reachinginto the full beautiful wingspanof a Habit.Yours for now,Betrayed New Year’s Resolutions of 2017
