I tac a sheet of loose leaf
graph paper on top
the corkboard in my bedroom.
It reads ‘GOALS OF 2018’,

and I know that all my aspirations
will be achieved,
like I read the future
from the murky tea leaves
at the bottom of my mug.

It is not because
“THIS IS MY YEAR”
or that I am a self-motivated person.

It is because there is a list.

I put pen to paper,
make a to do list for the day,
a to do list for the week,
the month, the summer, the year,

and the full moon
blooms in the violet sky
as I turn werewolf,
hungry for the blood of productivity,
a beast who cannot rest
until she’s dealt
with all the unfinished business
left in her life,
and my unfinished business
is my entire life.

There is nothing so gratifying
as my pen rending an X
at the completion of each task.
The monster in my gut
howls with delight;
another victim for the slaughter.

I feed off of lists.
It reads like a horror movie.

The monster in me
goes to Jiffy Lube and feeds,
sweeps the house and feeds,
takes her birth control and feeds,
makes her bed with blood
dripping down her feral face.

With a list
I werewolf myself through each day,
going from task to task to task to task

never pausing to take a breath,
never knowing how to relax,
always taut with fear that
the pack might function fine without me.

These lists grow
faster than I dare dream,
each one a feral beast of my own creation.

Don’t I already know the ending to this film?

The twist occurs:
how the lists are
the real monsters of this movie,
these lists who I thought
were on my side.
My lists maul me,
suck the marrow from my bones.

Anxiety is the monster
from which I can never escape,
always keeping me on the edge of my seat.

To be so dependent
on a thing as simple as list-making
turns me human,
hoping for the meat of success.

Nothing else matters.
I have already been bitten
by the virus of poor mental health.
I can never stop, anxiety’s infection
making me do every single task.

Can’t go out with friends, unless it’s on the list.
Can’t call my dentist back, unless it’s on the list.
Can’t masturbate, unless it’s on the list.
Can’t do anything I want to do
unless I put it on a fucking list.

What a horrifying reveal.
To find there is no cure.
That no hero is bursting through the door to save me,
that the monster is just playing with its food.

I pull out the pen, my inciting incident.
I write “To Do List For The Week” on paper,
and for a moment I feel so comforted,
like seeing my life laid out before me
won’t kill me in the end.