the chart asks me to circle how often

I feel this way

boiling all my emotions down to a bunch

of sterile numbers.

it makes me angry, this chart

because it somehow makes me feel ashamed

of being me.

in the end the sum just reads

wrong

and that’s all anyone will see.

she says I should talk to someone.

I say I don’t want to

I’ve done enough.

she says I’ll have to come back in a month

and I know I won’t show up.

a list of numbers I’m supposed to call

appointments I’m supposed to keep

all I came for was something

to make the days a little easier

but apparently you can’t get help

without all the baggage that comes with

well-meaning people.

I turn up the radio, pop-punk pumping

press my bare foot against the speaker just to

feel the thump of the bass

to feel anything but this.

don’t they know they make it too hard

when all I want is to disappear?

to not go through this alone?

my heart calls out where are you where are you where are you

I roll the window down, choose the next

louder song but

the volume is maxed out

it’s not enough

I’m not enough

I feel sicker than before I went.