september is short

short and salty (Originally published to Substack September 15th, 2026)

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tomorrow is here and yesterday was never mine. in between endless customer service exchanges and long commutes, i find time to buy a coffee. my hands grip it like a child and i nurse it til it’s all water. this frustrates the masses. when I can’t fall asleep i wonder what it would be like to take myself apart bit by bit. i imagine slipping out of my skin and peeling off each muscle. i’d toss them into a pile with the confidence of someone who knew how to put myself together again. i’d look at myself, all bones— i wonder if i’d think i was beautiful.

in the cover of night, i let him tell me that he missed me. and i let it feel good. i let myself be someone that does this. someone who only exists here and now. someone of and by oxytocin. he asks me what i’m thinking. nothing. something has washed over me so quietly, so viciously, that it swept all my thoughts out to sea. they won’t return until the month is over. when i get home i have bruises, so i know it was real.

i get the hell out of dodge. i think about tomorrow more than i should and yet never enough. i try to count my certainties. more have slipped through my fingers than i’m comfortable with. i try to count the promises i made. i mistakenly count the promises i’m owed. dinners uneaten. conversations not had. debts unpaid. i comb my fingers through my hair and count how many strands fall out.

i cross off another day.