Tired Poem by Abbey Rigney

Tired doesn’t even begin to explain it.

My band-aid covered fingers type so slowly

on these germ infested keys.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back until it hurts.

The dark, thick, clumped mascara

slightly prevents me from opening them back up.

I read aloud every word I type.

They all slur together and every now and then

I let out a sigh. Hmm, and my lips tingle.

Yawn. Scratch of the head.

I swallow and barely lick my lips

I can taste almost every previously eaten food that day.

It’s kind of gross, but it’s real.

We all have these moments when

we ask ourselves how anyone could

love someone in their state of grossumness,

such as this one, right now. This moment.

I figure it lets us know that even when

we can’t function enough to know

whether or not we’re loved,

we still are.

And always will be.