by Fransivan MacKenzie

And I am sick of it.

January was a wound I dressed by dressing up,

as if I could summon spring

by spilling watercolors against the sketchpad and calling that art,

sipping piña colada by the ocean,

and writing poems in my head about cumulus clouds.

I went back to therapy.

When I told her I was happy, her dainty little fingers scribbled something down. 

But Frances, the eyes do not lie.

February was a curse but at least this year, I pretended to be enchanted,

as though I wasn’t afraid of witchcraft,

as though my spells meant magic and folklore and not all those times

I passed out in stinky bathroom stalls because I didn’t eat enough.

In March, I fell in love.

He bought me a bouquet of satin sunflowers and wrote me love letters. 

I found the one whom my soul loves.

I wore my favorite earrings around him,

and always made sure my lips weren’t chapped.

I listened to the Lover album in a loop and thought

So this is what seizes the poets to write?

In April, I truly believed that the summer in my chest could last a lifetime.

I dreamt of solitaires shining on the back of my hand.

In May, I realized I was with a boy when I deserved a man.

While I was grateful for the romance, it wasn’t what I needed

at twenty-one, while juggling part-time jobs, a Master’s Degree,

and a career he couldn’t understand.

I’m sorry I can’t give you the clarity that you want, he typed

and I held back a sob.

When I called it off, I watched the cinders of his gifts

and his empty promises crowd my bedroom floor at midnight.

I slept through the staccato of June rain against the tin roof.

When I woke up, it was July and my body ached

for yet another month of hibernation,

even a year, perhaps?

I couldn’t witness the world go on if I keep my eyes shut.

I couldn’t feel left behind if I’m already gone.

Last December, my closest friend of three years told me that I was exhausting.

I cried myself to sleep.

I am convinced that I never rose from that dreamless state of despondency,

that I left myself there, in the sheets,

even as I went on pretending I hadn’t lost the most beautiful gift life had ever given to me.

Now, I stare at the ceiling and laugh.

Even my spine – collapsed to the mattress,

my legs – paralyzed by this sadness,

my veins – ice-cold with mood stabilizers and caffeine,

my heart, oh my godforsaken heart with all its sharpest shards,

even all of me believes she’s right.

I am exhausting.

But I am even more tired.

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