“You’re always too tired”
She said it as though
I would challenge it.
“Too tired to go out,
Too tired to work
Too tired to fuck.
If life is so
Fucking tiresome,
Why do you bother?”
If she expected an argument
She would be disappointed
Could she not guess that
I’d be too tired
To retort?
And besides, you can’t argue
With someone who agrees.
So why did I bother
Insisting on persisting?
The inescapable monotony
The earning just to spend
The eating just to shit
The sleeping just to wake.
The routine wasn’t to blame
It had always been the same
But I had apparently
Not cared to notice.
Well, I noticed now
And the grey, endless drudgery
Made me ill.
“I want to care,” I told her
It was the truth, too.
I used to care,
I was sure of it,
But now the caring
Felt like just another
Obligation.
Caring
Just to feel.
“I think you’re depressed,”
She told me, an accusation
More than a concern.
To her, it was a weakness,
Being unable to take
Another spoonful of it all
Without keeping a smile
On one’s face.
I had let the mask slip
And she hated me for it,
Hated the mirror
I had revealed.
I went on
For the same reason
That she didn’t leave:
The alternatives didn’t seem
Much better.