There is nothing that a doctor
could find wrong with me-
so I cannot get a note.
But I’m staying home
anyway.
I’ve got a fever of the mind
I can’t prove,
yet I feel
heavy,
collapsed from the inside,
tense
from holding steady
too long.
There is a seed of grief
I have to tend to
before it grows big,
a sadness which wonders
at all the scuttling,
all the getting by.
“Am I getting lost?”
I know this road too well,
I know the cost,
I know the cure,
and today I’m calling out
to fix myself.
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