Gods I'm tired.
3.5 hours spent in math class is too much.
6 hours studying US History is too much.
356 hours of backlogged sleep loss is too much.

Gods I'm exhausted.
Hundreds of messages are hundreds too many.
(considering the topic)
Dozens of nights spent crying are dozens too many.
(considering the reasons)
Scores of Google docs are scores too many.
(considering the contents)

Gods I am worn out.
Even a minute of conversation is a too much.
(regardless of topic)
Even an inquiry is one too many.
(regardless of reason)
Even a glance is too piercing a stare.
(regardless of meaning)

Gods,
f* you, I want to sleep.

Call me
                                                                                              weird
and tell me


off

but
                                                                                                                      there are some nights
when

if I crawled into
bed
                                                                                              I
                                                                                         would
                                                                                            not                      c
                                                                                          come                  i
                                                                                            out                 t
                                                                                                               e
                                                             and the floor                         n
                                                                                    is                 g
                                                                                        less      a
                                                                                               m

Captain,
suit jacket still beneath your tremor-less hands,
dark jeans as classy as any suit,
blue and black tie radiating calmness,
confidence,
you are our best.

Captain,
how you speak with such careless finesse,
words painting a picture and cutting it to shreds
and repainting it in new light,
you respond and counter questions,
a mongoose attacking an ancient cobra,
striking, winning,
grinning and frowning in perfect rhythm,
ever in control.

Captain,
you cannot win an uphill battle
when your opponent walks on air,
when spectators throw to them machine guns
and step on your fallen spears,
nor can your army
(ever willing, ever ready)
fight without you and your words
drilling through enemy lines,
ever calm,
confident.

Captain,
I have suffered the sting of defeat,
as have we all,
and I have felt the shame and fear
that flows in your blood as you hear the result,
and I see the look in your eyes
as you walk, ever steady, from the room,
foot itching to kick the walls with your radiant deliberateness,
and then you come back,
the look in your eyes one of exhaustion,
for you are tired,
Captain.

Captain,
rest your mind, hold your tongue,
let sleep and lethargy be your's for a day,
for the weekend,
for we all shall,
we, your army, who are tired and worn
from the conflict,
who have come out as victors or failures
and who cry in your dreary shadow.

Captain,
ten days remain till next we fight,
papers as swords and numbers as shields
beneath fire from questions like missiles
which we must deflect,
somehow,
and we will be ready, Captain,
we, your army,
in our suit jackets and clicking heals,
will lead you as you lead us:
to victory.

Please stop apologizing
every time you say something
and the reaction is not immediately what you expected.
Sorry is a stupid word
and doesn't fix anything.
All it does is show us that you meant to say that
and meant for us to know what you meant.

We're all depressed,
a bit insane (especially you),
close to death (especially me),
and trying to not be (Ok, maybe only she is).
Jump away to your fantasy world
or stay here and let me think
or do what I do and put on an act for the good of the order.

But rust and Ruin stop saying sorry
when I like the track you're on
but it's too harsh for you to put to message
though you did so anyway.
Things are not alright;
they never are and no one expects them to be
so we may as well ask
what's the ****** point?

They hear
the touch of hysteria
in my voice,
laugh.
A touch,
no more,
because I hear it,
too,
before the sound even
echoes in my
throat,
and I cut off the sound,
cat quick,
because if I don't
the laugh
will turn to
tears.
There'll be no hiding it,
the hysteria,
then.

Look at the thermometer:
It says 32.
Turn off the heater.
Open a window:
feel the cool influx of air.
Sit back down.
Look at your phone:
Still no response.
You asked why.
Open a new message:
You want to type in some more words.
It's been one hour, forty minutes.
Look at the window:
It's better out there.
Exit the new message.


You had nothing they wanted to hear to say anyway.

I have homework,
lots of homework,
math and history
and research on Cuba
to be memorized by
Friday.
Yet here I am,
on the internet,
scrawling words into
the black leather binder
that I carry around.
And I keep clicking
through the verse on
the screen
in the vain hope
that it can tell me
why.
Why do I keep Facebook
open in another tab,
watching for a pair
to be online simultaneously?
Why do I demand
news from the happy ones
but cringe at every word?
And why are
my pens choosing
now to run
out of ink,
now,
when I most desperately
need to ask the
paper:
Why can't I love?