WARNING: Emo poetry ahead.
Every morning when I wake up, I know there are things I must take with me
No matter what I am doing, I fill my pockets and my pores with the things I carry
When my feet touch the ground as I stand up from sleep
I know the weight of them.
Before I rise, my mind is full with the List.
It steamrolls over me and leaves its imprint:
What You Must Do To Be Acceptable.
I pick it up and pull my body skywards.
I walked from my bed to the bathroom and add the pills I take each day
settling in my stomach
Next to the heaviness of the breakfast I will not eat
I dress, placing the anxiety of eyes over my body
I have my bare essentials.
Today I carried a backpack.
A simple case for:
A laptop to channel words that build and build upon me
Reminding me that I never have enough words
A book of memories
joyful things I forget to read
A wallet, heavy with emptiness
A notebook, filled with fragments of days that I forgot to live.
They repeat themselves and I don’t remember to move
The loss of time on my shoulders
I remember to pick up my lover from his slump on the floor.
His sadness is large, black
But his legs don’t work today and so he uses mine
With my keys, I take the criticisms I heard yesterday and the day before and the day before
stretching back before memory.
Things begin to get heavy now, but it’s early
Before I leave, I turn back and pick up the hours of therapy I own
A prize for the size of my waist.
These are the things I take from the table before I begin.
As I walk through the day I collect things to put in my pockets
The letter from my landlord, rejecting a request
A note from the insurance, ending my benefits
The phone call from my mother, revealing secrets I didn’t want to know
They swell to bursting.
It is noon
I pull on my running shoes, and I feel the minutes I sweat falling on me
The time I am alone in my mind
The ripping breath I cannot end
Each mile is a requirement that I must complete, or I will drop everything
These are the rules, and I know that I cannot put down the things I carry.
Back to work, and my anxiety is large
growing and growing on the angry words that fly
A friend calls. I struggle to pick him up.
My legs are becoming weak.
As I walk from work, I take the knowledge that my hours were not enough
I have not, I have not, I have not-
An hour with my therapist, and I know I have not been Good Enough to myself
I pick up the diary card
The numbers are wrong
Bad numbers go in my pocket.
When I get home, I tumble, headlong into bed
I carry too much these days.