shriveled, pale, and weak as
the fall leaves that cling to my hair,
I am tired.
I have nothing left to give,
drained dry as hay and
paper,
if set to flame I would ignite
like kindling,
and then blow away in the wind
that teases the trees into shaking their fists in
fright.
I am tired of trying,
or,
tired of pretending there is a reason to.
I am tired of waiting and wishing for things
that were never mine,
and I am tired of remembering.
My smooth thoughts snagged
by the aftertaste of happiness,
as unattainable as the glass beads stuck between the
floorboards.
I just
want
to sleep,
paint beneath my fingernails and leaves in my hair
it is time to submit
to the dreams that beat against my skull
like rocks.
I look around;
the walls are white and strong.
Finally, there is no one to convince me
there is a reason to stay up,
and my mind is
quiet
at last.
But then,
that thought;
the one I tried to kick out so many times,
drifts through a crack in my strong white walls
and like a dandelion seed,
takes root in my
raw and beaten mind,
and starts to grow.
It sprouts legs
and begins to dance in front of me,
naked and obscene.
I am tired,
I tell it,
please just let me sleep.
I grope for the walls,
but they have blown away like wet cardboard,
leaving me to another sleepless year of night
to stumble through.