Coloring Book

What if I lived forever,
and nothing changed?

It isn't at all difficult to imagine an eternity of days
waking up to the same mess
in a succession of apartments,
apartments that are all the same:
the same teetering pile of pans in the cupboard,
the same hair in the bathroom sink,
the garbage that the cats have knocked over,
the way they knock it over every day.
And if I clean it, it only gets messy again--
my husband's clothes on the floor, the dresser drawers pulled halfway out--
as fast as I clean, it becomes unclean:
the apartment,
my ability to think,
my muscles and my bones.

I can imagine an eternity of days
waking up in the same body,
the one that I'm trapped in,
the one that's not even part of me so much as it is
the thing I can't get out of.
And every motion I tell it to make
is slightly off--
singing to myself, writing a letter, half-heartedly jogging:
it all falls just short of acceptable.
The scope of my ambition is like a coloring book,
and I can't quite keep inside the lines.

Every month we make the same mistakes.
It's almost like time has stopped, except
that with every moment,
I can see my chance to escape getting smaller
and smaller.
I have know idea where all our money goes--
late fees, probably.
I'm not even flustered anymore
when our credit cards are declined,
or when once again, the landlord
threatens to take us to court.

I try my best to do a good job pretending
that I think things can get better,
that I believe that if we work hard and are responsible,
we can fix it.
But even I know that's bullshit--
we're not going to change,
and so nothing is going to change for us.
Sometimes I wish I could just accept it.
This is how life is going to be.
We should thank God
that we're eventually going to die.

But at the same time, I just can't help it.
I can't help wanting to be better.
And I know I could take that desire and use it to power some kind of action,
but I don't think any action would be strong enough
to overcome the laundry,
and the bills,
and eternity.