By Tatiana Onofre
The morning devours me whole
a jaw so unhinged, a throat of glare,
My name liquefies in the rancid acid.
I am told I must turn my body of motion,
limbs like clock hands, ticking, ticking—
schoolwork, work, be considerate, be seen.
Be everything all at once, all flawless,
A collision of absolute purpose and proof.
But I fold, soft with unforgiving exhaustion,
Forgetting I am also a creature that bends, that weeps,
That breaks under the weight of
what could—should have been done by now?
If I were a machine, an engine,
I would never bruise myself with suspicion,
Never pause to wonder why my bones
Carry the obligation of expectation
like a sack of wet sand, a hidden force
Productivity, what is it but a God
We carve or secrete from our ribs,
pressing our souls into its stone chest,
praying, to become even a little more than human?
I watch others swallow their hours
like bitter pills, without hesitation, no questions.
If they can, I can—
but why must I?
I am plainly not the sum of checked boxes,
not the ledger of your completed tasks.
I am a body that hums and halts,
a ghost of hunger and heartbeat.
I starve to embody all the things I want
But I am full from all of the things I am not,
but I am still something.
I am.
