“You’re tired a lot now,” he says.
“Do you think you might be sick?”
He suggests it gently, but I shut
it down. Sick? No.
I no longer entertain
that train of thought—a track
laid in my childhood, when clearly
I was always a healthy girl: healthy goals,
a sharp appetite, a quick mind,
strong body, observant.
Perhaps I was just surrounded, at times,
by unhealthy environments
(created by those who call me sick).
The only thing I’m sick of
is this talk that I am sick.
Maybe I only seem unwell
because I act a little different
than you expect. And honestly,
I’m barely sorry I don’t appease.
At most, I’ll concede this:
there is the past, the present, and the future—
and most of the time, I am fractured, split
across all three: making sense of the past,
living in the present, imagining the future.
But just as rabbits a hundred years ago
did what they do today—and will do
a hundred years from now—
I’ll be just
fine,
riding the temporal wave.
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