Don’t sweat the big stuff.
It’s probably fine and you’re doing fine.
You’re probably doing better than fine.
You’re probably doing great.
Even if it doesn’t feel fine–
Don’t sweat the big stuff.
Don’t sweat the small stuff either.
But the big stuff?–
No, definitely don’t sweat that.
I know I must have been happy then.
And if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost feel it
Between scrunched eyes and clenched teeth.
Give me indifference like slow fog:
Dissipated by the switch-flick of full-beams.
This opaque apathy does not thaw.
I’m brittle in thick ice.
“I’ve never considered drowning a cat.”
He says this and, politely, I concur with that.
In shameful realisation, I play it off as a joke;
The impulse is not as relatable as I’d hoped.
“I don’t really hit the snooze button. I’m refreshed after sleep.”
She tells me when I tell her my morning routine:
Waking up disappointed, not quite wanting to be dead
But not feeling alive. Staying safe in my bed.
“I make silly faces in the the mirror until I smile.”
Is her answer after pausing whilst she thinks for a while
When I say I have enough clothes but nothing to wear
Because the judgement of my reflection is too much for me to bear.
“I feel so much better when I just exercise”
He prescribes for the days that I don’t go outside.
I imagine the endorphins of a stroll through the park
Whilst lay like a corpse for full days in the dark.
“I keep positive affirmations in the lists that I write.”
She bestows me this weapon for the demons I fight.
Because I’ve asked her if her nightmares seem more real than real life,
Because I’m dreaming my days and I can’t sleep at night.
I swallow my struggle and I smile, “You’re right.”
When you asked I how I was, you were being polite.
I appreciate it, and I’m grateful, and I know that you care.
My problems aren’t your burdens and they’re unfair to share.
I don’t want you to fix me and I get so frustrated.
I need you to listen; love the flaws that I’ve hated.
I know it’s too much to ask. Let me spare you instead–
May that be my comfort in the words left unsaid.
On the days of unbrushed teeth,
In the sanctuaries of our beds,
Please help us to accept our wisdom
In the glory of our grossness.
Open-mouthed and wet.
Gulping and heaving.
A suffocating realisation
That you may never possess the capacity
To differentiate my laughter from my sobs.
How many tears can be held in each eye?
Sob through three-ply calculus;
Struggle to scale the asymptote.
The limits tend towards infinity.
I feel so intensely
The fatal unfurling of each cardiac fibre;
The snap and recoil of too-taut sinews.
The excruciating pain of an impalpable wound.
No poem today.
Because my weak words are failing describe emotions too intense for my mind to comprehend.
I’m sure that I must be dying.
I woke up from a dream
Where I’d convinced myself I could be enough to make you happy.
Realising I’m not even enough for myself.