You're Allowed to Be Human Until You Show Signs of Weakness (+ a poem)

I'm tired, and I feel bad about feeling tired–it's insanely messed up to think this statement through. Still, it's how the past few months have been going for me. The idea that I have no right to complain has popped into my head too often–it's what you hear people say: you don't have it as bad as we do. When did life become a competition of whose lot is worse?

Ah, well. A poem: 

​Name Me Ghost

Not quite alive, and 
not quite dead—gone 
through both, but the afterlife 
is bullheaded, and 
won’t accept it. 
Not today. 

The memorial—the 
photo reel of all the Saturdays, the 
laughter stored in our throat. Replay 
loop all the stupid things I’ve said. 

Migratory patterns leave 
shadows for those left behind--
sometimes, it’s the fragrance 
of missing me. Maybe they do.

Still, this is goodbye: it’s 
the natural swing of things 
to move along when the 
cold begins to bite.