You ask how I am. And I say I’m fine. I say I’m tired. You hear I’m tired. But there’s so much more. It’s more than tired. My tread is worn and bald.
Worn smooth like a stone that’s been run over by sand and water for far too long. Too long to heal from the scratches and gouges. Too long to catch a breath of air.
So I just sit here and say I’m tired. But it’s more than just tired. It’s weary. It’s wary. It’s worry. It’s in my bones. Sitting stewing making a broth. Stewing in my own not good enoughness.
So I just sit here and say I’m tired but it’s more than tired. I’m worn down. Worn thin. Worn out. Knees sticking out of thread bare Jeans from falling, faltering, failing so many days. So I slap the I’m tired patch on the holes hoping to hold my fabric together just one more day, one more hour, one more minute. Just one more minute. I can hold it together just one more minute. One more thread pops. Just please hold it together. Pop. Another patch. I’m tired. Pop. Another patch. Just hold it together. I’m just holding onto threads.
But you dont see that. You just hear I’m tired.
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