I keep saying I’m tired but that’s not it.

I’m irritated with this state of being- no.

I’m keeping myself in this state- no.

I’m drawing flowers as footnotes

and expecting them to bloom life into

the pages I can’t help but write.

Life sentences in the form of the disquiet

that lodges itself inside my soul;

I couldn’t calm down to save my life,

so what’s the point of telling me to breathe?

The problem isn’t in my lungs,

but in my spine, in the cell, in this body.

I have been confining monsters

to the space between my ribs,

but if I can’t find why it hurts,

then it’s probably not hurting at all.

It’s the kind of logic that I learned

from the times I asked for help,

all the ways I was let down.

So, I’ll write a wound into my being,

hoping to erase it from myself,

hoping for daises instead.