Tired.

I sit in that chair,
in that room,
across from yours.
The table on the left
holds a clock
and a box of tissues.

Sometimes there are tears -
sometimes not -
but I always want to sleep after we talk.

It's draining, carrying on like this;
fighting the dread every morning,
fearing that everything will go wrong
         I'll get hurt.
                 I'll hurt someone.
I'll lose my friends.

But the sun comes up
and life moves on.
Class
work
life
keeps moving forward.

Life keeps me busy
and distracts me from the weight on my chest.
The ghosts of the past at my back
as I take that next step forward.