Unedited Ragey Poem: Wrong Kind of Tired

It’s not that I long to not be tired

A decade ago I leapt about like a puppy with car keys

But I don’t want to wake and buzz with the need to move

It’s that I’m the wrong kind of tired

Read more: Unedited Ragey Poem: Wrong Kind of Tired

I long for the heavy limbs of running twenty miles

On wooded trails slippery with rain

And then curling my burning quadriceps under a blanket on a couch in front of a fire

I long for the pure burning agony of eyelids forced open to watch the fluttering lashes of the infant in my arms as I pace the quiet house at noon

Is he asleep yet

I long for the way the wood floor would rustle with paper and rolling pencils after spending weeks writing an answer to a question a professor asked a hundred of us

And the exhausted pride of knowing I’m RIGHT

I long for the privileged blessed hell that is having a house to paint and then doing it and swearing laying flat on the floor splattered in five different colors that I will NEVER do that again

I long for the husk I became after crying for my dead dog until my hands relaxed

My limbs are heavy

I’m laying flat on the floor

But the grief of a thousand children roars like a river ceaselessly

The screams of mothers lamenting the torment of their littles ping in my mind

Alongside

Pack their jackets and remember yours this time and cut up the strawberries and feed the dogs and why is his left shoe off again and shit we are going to be late is my first meeting at 9 or 9:30

Mama mama mama

MAMA!

Oh that one’s mine

How blessed I am to be so tired