The Better Version of Me

Monday’s ambition is Tuesday’s regret.

I bought the cilantro for a meal

I was actually going to cook,

a person I was going to be.

Now, the crisper drawer is a graveyard.

I pull the plastic bag from the back

and it sags with the weight of swamp water.

Green sludge, translucent and thick,

pressing against the thin film.

It’s not just the smell, though it fills the kitchen

like a wet dog in a hot car.

It’s the way I keep paying for the rot

and calling it a fresh start.