What is wrong with you, they ask,
I don't know, I'll tell them, I don't know.
But I do, how do I, someone obscure, tell them,
That I am tired.
That they have cut me off from those I trust,
That they have done this, but no.
It is my fault because I am sad.
My fault because I am afraid.
My fault I am not just like them.
My fault for having to constantly fight to still be a person,
Not an object shifted and thrown about at the whim, of someone,
Someone who claims to care about me and still they,
They have done this to me.
They take my voice and give me no choice,
And I. I am tired.
I have fought for years.
I have fought to get out of bed in the morning,
To do the things I know are important,
To put a smile on my face when the situation calls,
Even to do the things I want to do.
My bones feel heavy, like lead,
Holding me in place,
I want to call for help, to beg, to plead.
To do anything, but I...
I am, just. So. Tired.