I’m tired of the sunscreen
and the do-you-believe-me-yet hives
and the loose-necked stare into the
far-off familiar middle distance.

I’m tired of the meningococcal vaccine that’s
hung on far too long, making me stiff-armed,
but not enough to excuse my poor performance in nearly every

Quite frankly, I’m tired of the pain that radiates out
from my bones, my tibiae pulsing in time to what I imagine is
my heartbeat.

I like to imagine that I exist separately from my body,
that I am a consciousness placed (randomly yet unfairly)
in a body I resent.
In this way, I absolve myself of blame,
of the guilt my mother and father carry,
of the “should”s they carry too close to their hearts.

When I am bone-tired, I feel like crying, like
getting on the floor and wailing and thrashing
like a toddler. This is proof that physical
pain rules the mind.

I have had many private tantrums in my mind this past week.
I will have many more this next week.
I am tired.
And the only path left to me is acceptance.