Inside

I’m looking inward.

There’s no going out:

not yet, no need,

no will, no sense,

no invulnerability.

It’s irrational,

I’ll probably be OK,

not DOA.

And yet.

I’m shrinking;

hesitating

and

diminishing.

So I’ll fit my bubble,

so it doesn’t burst early.

Inner space is deep.

Venturing out

is as logical

as the Penrose Stairs,

and just as impossible.

I’ll photo-shop a smile

tomorrow, for a virtual party,

pretend to be jolly

when I’d rather not.

If I can.