Tired

I am writing about being tired.

Not the poetic kind.

Actual tired.

The kind that sits in my shoulders at 2:17pm.

~~~

Not the poetic kind.

Not the kind that makes things feel meaningful.

The kind that sits in my shoulders at 2:17pm.

The kind that makes one line take all day.

~~~

Not the kind that makes things feel meaningful.

I am tired of making decisions,

the kind that makes one line take all day.

I am tired of being asked what I have capacity for.

~~~

I am tired of making decisions,

as if I could measure it.

I am tired of being asked what I have capacity for,

as if it were something I could point to.

~~~

As if I could measure it,

I am tired of softening my voice.

As if it were something I could point to,

I am tired of repeating myself.

~~~

I am tired of softening my voice.

This is not only about rest.

I am tired of repeating myself.

This is about accumulation.

~~~

This is not only about rest.

It is lunchboxes, laundry, lost shoes, a child calling.

This is about accumulation.

Tasks added to tasks added to expectations.

~~~

It is lunchboxes, laundry, lost shoes, a child calling.

I am not burnt out.

Tasks added to tasks added to expectations.

I still want to write.

~~~

I am not burnt out.

I am living inside interruption.

I still want to write.

The asking does not stop.

~~~

I am living inside interruption,

it does not seem to lessen.

The asking does not stop,

I am trying to give it a shape.

~~~

It does not seem to lessen,

actual tired,

I am trying to give it a shape, so

I am writing about being tired.