By Megan Riddell
I’m ungrateful. I feel it vibrate against every key that I type. It hangs over my head like a
spotlight that burns my lips every time I open my mouth. I am not the victim. I am not trained
I am not the victim, but I am not in control. A light touch of the wrong doorknob and my lungs
are choked because I can’t (and won’t) quit touching my face. There are no fucking groceries.
What the fuck is everyone doing with all the sour cream? The cleaning supplies shelves are
empty. Were any of you sanitary before today?
I get to work from home. I get to work additional hours for free, since the two hours I used to
spend traveling to and from work have been saved by my bosses’ flexibility—my saving grace.
Before I fall asleep, I can hear the sound of social media peers’ ellipses rage with shit like:
You’re lucky to even have a job and You’re lucky you get to work from home. I wasn’t lucky just
a month ago.
A month ago, I continued the social distancing I started before it became pandemic-appropriate
in 2017. Friends stopped inviting me out for drinks in 2018. The only texts I received on the
weekends in 2019 were from my mom, asking what I was doing and I’d auto-respond:
homework, work, cleaning the house. Now, I merely follow orders: state, federal, local.
If you have skin, you’re at risk.
We’ll all be wiping our asses across the living room floor like dogs just in time for summer.
Megan Riddell is a 28-year-old Creative Writing MFA candidate at The University of Central Florida, with a primary focus on poetry. In her free time, Megan devotes herself to attending concerts of punk-rock bands no one listens to anymore, building Lego towers with her daughter, Violet, and re-reading contemporary poetry from the 1960’s, by Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath.