I’m tired of myself. Of my life. Of my words. I write and delete, over and over until I stop writing altogether. Facing the blankness. Letting it stand in my stead. Unreadable. Unwritable.
Will I ever find my way back? Will I ever feel that excitement again when rhyme and rhythm take over, and my brain fills with song?
I wanted to squeeze every possible word out my psyche like the last bit of toothpaste from a crumpled tube. Letter by letter, wiped onto a waiting page. Unwasted. Still good for something.
Those closest never noticed the tube getting more crushed and twisted by the day. They don’t care about my toothpaste—how much I have, if I like the taste, whether I share. They didn’t notice I stopped brushing my teeth.
I’m tired of myself. Of my life. Of my words. I’m tired of being tired. I don’t know how to fix this.