Being Honest

You asked me how I am

And if I’m being honest I would say

I’m tired.

I’m tired

And I’m lonely.

I’m tired

And I’m lonely

And my body is a clock

wound with the wrong kind of time,

ticking toward a fatigue so deep

it has its own weather.

I’m tired

And I’m lonely

And my body is a clock

And my mind is a list

of doses and appointments,

a calendar of alarms,

each hour a small room

with no door out.

I’m tired

And I’m lonely

And my body is a clock

And my mind is a list

And my hands are always counting—

pills, breaths, the quiet beeps

of machines that never sleep,

while I watch the dark and wait

for the next cry.