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Dead. Tired.

I'm just so tired.
the kind of tired
that keeps you
from lifting your feet.
that makes you wish things
you'd never tell a shooting star.
that wants you to give up.

the kind of tired
that killed Sampson
(and Delilah).

the kind of tired
that ties you to your bedpost,
that turns you into a lark,
that anchors to your soul
and drags it to the murky depths.

I can be fun
and cute
and sexy
all day long.
but when night comes
I'm just tired.

dead. tired.

and he says
that he'll listen
when I talk
and I know he would
(if I talked)
and I would too
if I wasn't too tired to speak,
too tired to remember
I'm supposed to be afraid,
too tired, even,
to care



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