I Lied When I Said I Already Had Plans (poem)

I Lied When I Said I Already Had Plans

Don’t want to leave the house.

Don’t want to leave the bed,

except for the guilt of staying.

Favorite colors turn shades of beige.

The problem is so very monotone.

I feel I am not truly suffering,

that it cannot be recognized until

it screams in my ears

and rattles my body, but

it doesn’t.

It lurks in the shadows like a predator,

but the claws never extend, and the teeth

never sink in.

Only its gaze is upon me.

I shift my feet, look over my shoulder,

and habitually find distraction

from this elusive weight.

Like a puppet master, it has its grip

in my head—it doesn’t need to hunt.

I begin to prey upon myself.

I turn away from the safety of the herd

in plain sight of my hunter.

Declined plans, rejections, nights of solitude.

These aren’t what I’m afraid of, but

what I did.

What a convenience I had headache that day.

How lovely for plans to fall through.

I think I’m tired. Yeah… tired.

Better go home.

Wounds slowly appear—the shriveled body

that hasn’t seen sun—not just on myself,

but on the planners, the inviters.

I don’t know if it’s my fault or

the fault of this predator.

This predator has left me

all alone, staring

at beige walls

with empty hands.

~2016

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