When I say I am tired,

what I mean to say is

I have a chronic pounding headache,

100 bricks stacked on my chest,

sick to my stomach.

What I mean is my nerves

are like frazzled electrical circuits.

I wake up at night, heart on fire

from hospital nightmares –

an ill man whose face contorts

in front of me, and I must place two fingers

against his wrist to check if he is alive.

I cannot speak this into words

to you, I do not know how.

So I write them at night to the void.

The void does not judge me

for being weak and sensitive,

it does not feel heavy with my stories,

it does not pity me,

it does not respond in trite,

it does not try to relate,

it does not wish I said less,

it only exists exactly as I need.

that’s all I mean.