aspified

a blog by an autistic adult

This is just a poem about Mondays

Mondays come like vultures
picking at the remains
of my will to live, testing me
with word problems like
if a shower takes twelve spoons and
scratching your itchy head all day
takes eleven and you only
start the week with ten, how
will you pay the rent?
So I try to learn a new math
one in which infinity
is a practical answer, like always
is a possibility, and negativity
isn’t subtraction
because existence, in reality,
isn’t logical because logically
I should be dead by now.
Because I can’t do this.
That’s the simplified answer.
It’s not a radical expression like
No. Really, I can’t get out of bed
today, gravity isn’t on my side and
I lifed too much this weekend and
I can’t life anymore this week.
Please don’t make me. And
She says this is what depression is and
He says this is just laziness and
They say my picture is in the dictionary
next to the word burnout and
I don’t know the answer and
I’ve forgotten the question.
I’ve forgotten where the train station is and
I forgot to put on pants but
I remembered and went back for them and
She says someday I’ll get lost out there
and never find my way home and
He says it’s easy, just stop thinking about it and
They say they’re all there for me but
I’m not sure where there is and
She says I’m not as high functioning
as they seem to think I am and
He says it’s not the destination but the journey and
They say they don’t know
what to say anymore and I think
Thank Goodness!
Because my head is just a box
that holds the ableism in
and if I bang it just right
with the side of my fist
I’ll feel better and
that works if no one is watching
but everyone is watching
because the train is almost downtown now
and people are standing in the aisles like
toy soldiers who can’t wait
to report for duty on Christmas morning
but then I hear one say to another one
that she despises Mondays and I think
Ok then. This society thing
isn’t working out for anybody
and another one yawns
and another one shakes their head
and they commiserate
about this bullshit and I think
Maybe this is where hope lives.
Maybe this is where the revolution begins.
Maybe we’ll all just quit and go back
but then one laughs
and another marches forward
and the doors open and
no one talks to each other anymore
because everyone is going fast
like a race but
nobody wins.
And I sit here until it’s over
sit and wait for the last waft of
iTunes and perfume to pass
and I wipe the tears I didn’t know I had
off my face and pull myself up and
I stand in the doorway looking for inspiration
because pigeons are always dancing
in a circle like some kind of ritual
around the ankles of the bagel people
who sometimes drop a crumb and
the birds survive somehow.
Maybe they know something I don’t.
Maybe their ability to fly
makes them feel safe enough
to stand their ground and wait.
And a child skips
too close to the tracks
and her mother drags her
without explaining why
electricity hides
in the strangest places and
I wish I could go back.
Not to my own childhood, certainly, but
to someone’s. Back when I believed
I was the future and
imagination was encouraged and
not a sign of a mental health crisis
Back when plans were drawn
in sidewalk chalk and word games
were washed away in the tide
Back when if I wasn’t strong
nobody noticed and showing up
every day got a trophy
Back when I cared about things
like recognition and I was motivated
by scratch-and-sniff stickers and
getting through another Monday meant
dodging the kind of balls you could throw back
but no, I have to go
and a pigeon follows me because it doesn’t know
I don’t have anything and I laugh
because I wonder if birds know
what weekends mean and
I wonder if they spend their Sundays
lifing at the beach because they know
not to bother coming here because
there are no bagels until Monday.
And I wonder if they look forward to this
and I wonder how many spoons birds get
and I imagine back at the beach
there is one of them that looks
a lot like this one who just
can’t even anymore and is waiting for
the others to return exasperated
waiting to ask them
if the journey was worth it.

[pigeon on a statue of a person stock photo from pixabay.com]

[pigeon on a statue of a person stock photo from pixabay.com]

2 Comments

  1. Love, love , love your poem.

  2. Thank you for sharing. I miss writing. My therapy. I need to get back into it and then I can do something that makes me feel alive again. Each time I would write a poem or an article on a topic of my interest I’d feel better. Like I’m offering a view into my head because usually people see me as a this or a that when really I am a lot different than the boxes they use to classify me. How long have you been writing and what got you motivated?

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