Paralysis

The envelope sits on the counter

like a question I didn't ask to answer.

My partner came home.

My partner asked.

I said something that wasn't yes.

I said something that wasn't no.

I made a sound

that meant I hadn't decided.

But I had decided. I decided

not to decide. I decided

that if I didn't open it,

if I didn't mark anything,

then the choice wouldn't be mine.

Then I could be absolved.

The envelope waits.

It waits the way things wait

that have already failed.

I could open it. I could read

the names, the positions, the questions

that someone thought were simple.

I could mark the boxes.

I could feed it to the machine.

Or I could let it sit here,

growing softer at the edges,

becoming a different kind of answer.

The kind that says:

I couldn't. I didn't. I won't.

The kind that says:

I was afraid of what I might become

if I had to choose.