Fake lives

I set the timer for 10 minutes and think about hell.

Will this be my hell? My first born screaming from the crib. I’m a room away. Listening. Feeling every cry inside my own body.

Or will I have to transcribe my own interviews? Study myself on tape, making conversation, talking over the answers I need for the story. Exist in a state of cringe.

Or will I have chipped nail polish for all of my damned eternity?

I open Instagram. Hell is getting boring and I can only hold a thought so long.

The cries continue.

I spy bespoke ceramic mugs, lox-filled bagel sandwiches, sunny skies slashed with palm trees. Fake lives. Are they, too, listening to a baby scream herself to sleep?