I go through a class with my tongue sliding on
all the textbook words knowing I
will stumble over some
syllable or two
because it takes
all my energy
just to
stand.
The next day I call in with a cold for a cold
is easier to explain than some
twisted up version of a
messy thing I call
my own
soul
is
breaking.
The weight on my chest pushes heavier
into my rib cage to steal away
all the breath I need
to cry, to form tears,
to speak,
to get
help.
There are stories told at meetings.
An ALT went home because
someone found out
about the therapist
and no B.O.E
wants to keep
broken
merchandise.
And so I contain within the apartment walls
these festering abysmal thoughts
praying that tomorrow this
so-called cold
will just
leave me
be.
Two days later, I return to school
with a very big smile
so no one will guess
that I am still
carrying this
sickness
crushing
my will
to
just
stay
alive.
