A poem
No one admits it.
It’s too cruel
to imagine
some hours
preferred
alone.
_
I squeeze
Into frame
Holding on
to a concept
of being good.
/
How does that
look?
_
Trying hard.
To not be…
my mother
to not be tired
or bothered
to not be cold
or worthless.
_
I see traits…
creeping in.
/
Wanting more.
Time
in the bathroom.
At my desk.
On the phone.
In the morning.
Before bed.
_
During the week,
I long for the end.
Steeling away…
