I am tired in ways that average hearts cannot understand.
It is not bone deep, it is not exhaustion,
it is not an anxious fatigue, or insomnia, or
the pressures of the world that crush
me into a fine powder of disapointment.
It is hollow and it is soundless except for the echoes
of my faltering pulse, of my labored breath, of my
tired, tired, tired words ricocheting around
over, and over, and over, until they’re nothing except
homeless syllables looking for a new mouth
to leap into to make them fresh again.
Instead, they are spit from my tongue like
a thousand lies before them, still empty, still
meaningless. I say, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.
but they’re just more syllables spilling free,
making their grand escape. There are millions more
still careening around inside of this void that I’ve become.