You don’t understand

that when I say

“It was hard for me

to get out of bed today,”

it was because

I had to peel myself

off my mattress

like a price sticker

stuck a new porcelain mug.

 

You don’t understand

that when I say

“my body won’t let me

do something,”

it’s because every bone

and every fiber

of my being

is protesting,

a raging feminist

at a women’s march.

 

You don’t understand

that when I say

“I can’t walk any faster,”

it’s because the wind—

albeit mellow—

is assaulting me

until I’m an umbrella

turned inside out.

 

You don’t understand

that when I say

“I can’t sleep,”

it’s because I slip into

my silky sheets

after every sunset

and feel the sharp needles

of the day

piercing my tender flesh.

 

You don’t understand

that when I say

“I’m having trouble

talking today,”

it’s because there’s

a white hot branding iron

jammed down my throat,

choking me,

making my words

gurgle out of me.

 

You just do not

understand,

though you think

you know

everything about me.

Here’s some advice:

compassion is key

to many things in life,

like not being

an absolute fool.