The stories I might live

I tried to write the joy
that has overtaken me
and somehow, mostly
bitterness came through.
Bemoaning the body
I once had, the appetites
that now seem foreign,
the stories I thought
I might live. The sun, moon,
and break from headaches
seem like lofty ideals
like the romance of star maps
or endearments I’ll never feel.

Have I been swallowing
great big gulps of sadness
too long? Is it disappointment
twisting my stomach into
a chronic condition?

Web MD says it could be stress or
menopause or food sensitivities
or latent trauma rearing its head
like Nessie refusing to be caught.

I watch the flowers bloom and wither
and feel I’m keeping pace
with things that are too fleeting.