The morning could not have gone better.
We walked to the shimmering lake, drank coffee
under a tree, my hand on her leg, her hand on my back,
then walked home and swept the porch
of wisps of grass and sand.
I hate to be reckless with these gifts.
There’s nothing wrong with my body,
if you don’t count my brain, and I know
others have it harder. When I’m kind to myself,
like this morning, I might even allow
that it’s not that I’m not strong.
It’s just tonight I know I’ll sit and watch the sun
and have to tell myself, over and over,
as it pools into the horizon, that it’s actually
the sun. I do this because I do not inhabit my body.
I do not inhabit my body because my mind
brims with intrusive thoughts, and acknowledging that
I’m alive reminds me these thoughts might become real.
They will not become real. Though,
my mind assures me, one can’t be sure.
The sun, the sun, the sun, I repeat,
reminding myself it’s there, that I’m living
the only moments I’ll ever get – though I don’t actually
want to know this. I prefer the facsimile of happiness.
Which makes me ungrateful, but it’s the best I can do.
I hate that it’s true, but sometimes it must be said
to keep me going: my being in the world
is too hard. The fatigue, at times,
bigger than family and friends.
It rips my beautiful mornings from me,
and the evenings to come, where they’ll be nothing
to complain of: drink in hand, sweet music
on the stereo, the knowledge of everyone I love
in the world, and the last of the sun on my face,
oh, the sun, the sun, the sun.
