a poem (sort of): i’m tired

Something about a playlist on repeat,
or too much coffee in my veins –
makes me feel like typing.

As does not enough sleep, a handful of days of restlessness,
eyes baggy,
soreness in my body though I’ve literally done nothing physical
other than feel worry.
(And lift a chair. I guess that could be it.)

But the worry was heavier.

Always is.

They say bad things “happen in 3s.” I’m not always superstitious.
But something about the way my dream predicted the sounds of sobbing
Makes me feel unease.

I have dreams like that, you know.
Sometimes I admit it. I laugh. Or make fun of myself.
But this one – like others – was real.

I never know what to do with them.

People in your life need to hear this above all else, and if nothing else:
It’s not your fault.

When something bad occurs, it simply isn’t. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.

All week I thought of this.
The Goodwill Hunting scene – is that the best I can come up with?

I’m too tired to feel lame about that.
We are created to be resilient, but not indestructible.
My head obsesses over where that line exists. It is a flimsy line, tattered by how many times we hit it.
I am afraid to breach it.
My heart knows better.
Has more wisdom, more fire-

I gulp down what I can
in calming breathes,
feelings of lightness,
reminders that we are sons and daughters and ancestors
of searing pain – that is it built into the fabric of our very bodies
to endure in crisis.

We haven’t evolved beyond that primitive instict.
But we have less tolerance for it.

I wish I was better.

It is whitish grey outside.
That is how I feel.
Thin film of grey, barely discernible, and I can’t scrape it off.