Lettuce

the thing about wanting

is how it sits

in your mouth

like a pill you can’t swallow

i keep checking my phone

as if someone might have texted

to tell me

who i’m supposed to be

my mother calls

to ask if i’m eating enough vegetables

and i lie

in my bed

say, “yes,”

remembering the wilted

lettuce in my fridge

that cost eight dollars

everything costs now

including the kind of sadness

that makes you buy

organic produce

you’ll never eat

there’s a word

for the space between

wanting to change

and actually

but i can’t remember it

probably because i spent

four years in college

learning to articulate

things i don’t actually feel

the therapist says

healing isn’t linear

which sounds like something

someone would embroider

on a pillow

right next to

“LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE”

and other lies

we tell ourselves

while the lettuce

slowly turns