Someone asked me when was

the tiredest I’ve ever been

and immediately, my mind went back,

back to the years when I didn’t

even know what tired was.

I only felt it after long days at the park,

the sun’s warmth still on my skin,

my mouth still tasting the ice cream

my mom swore she wouldn’t buy,

and my hands still covered

in the fur of all the dogs I pet.

When all I could do was close

my eyes, the car a gentle

rocking chair, music from the radio

barely audible over the wind.

When I got home, I’d stay asleep,

and my only worry would be

when I’d go to the park again.

But that—

That wasn’t the tiredest

I’ve ever been.

It was when I slept for

four days straight, the taste of

ice cream replaced by

the bitter aftermath of taking

too many pills.

(If anyone asks, it was a mistake.)

The EMT stuck a needle in my arm,

said, “I need you to stay awake,”

but when I was, all I felt inside

was ache.

What do you do when your

only choices are to be in pain

or just go to sleep?

At the time, staying awake

wasn’t an easy promise to

keep.

The tiredest I’ve ever been wasn’t

when I laid in the driveway

after getting out of the pool,

my limbs tired, my stomach full.

It was when I woke for a few minutes

during those four days and

roamed the hospital halls like a ghost

searching to get back to her body.