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
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
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.