It's February now I found the list

It's February now. I found the list

I made on January 1st—

all those promises, all that wish

for who I'd be. The thirst

for change. The certainty that this

would be the year. I'd do the thing.

Half the list is now dismissed,

crossed out. But there's this sting—

this one thing still unchecked,

still waiting, still untouched.

And I know I've wrecked

any chance. Too much

time has passed. February

is the marker, the line

where you stop lying, where you're wary

of your own design.

I'll carry this for months,

looking at that box,

knowing that I've bunked

on who I thought I'd be when the locks

opened on the year.

Next January I'll try again.

I'll make another list.

I'll break it by February then.