most days, i am too tired to be in love.
some days, too angry,
too full of the hurts from self and others
to be able to provide,
still tasting too much iron,
acrid in my mouth, the bloodied words
i spat at you, on my front porch.
most days, i am too tired to be in love,
though some days it is heavier,
sadness like a bathtub
inside my chest, and my heart slips
inch by inch beneath the waterline;
this kind of sadness
takes energy to create, to feel,
to enjoy.
most days i am just too tired to be in love,
to wield the smile and words and touches
and gestures and emotions that it takes
to be seen as loving.
but most days, i am glad it is only exhaustion
and not the ache of anger that hasn't died
or the ease of quietly drowning
that keeps me from you.