Come Over I Am Not Okay And I Am Out Of Clean Spoons
I type with one thumb, screen too bright for the pressure behind my eyes,
dishes stacked like a barricade,
the sink a skyline I pretend I cannot read.
I write and delete three versions before I send the only one that fits:
come over, I am not okay and I am out of clean spoons,
that is all of it, that is me.
The floor is a graveyard of clothes I could not carry to the basket.
The trash swells.
My brain has been humming the same flat note since three in the morning.
I am not dying.
I am only stuck in that glue where brushing my teeth
feels like scaling a wet wall with no ledge, no warning.
You show up without asking for details.
Hoodie over pajamas, shoes untied, hair unstraightened,
tapping on the door like it might shatter.
You are holding grocery store sushi, cheap cookies, two bottled drinks,
and you say I did not know what you needed so I brought choices for the ache.
You take one look at the room—
the chaos, the smell of takeout, the half-finished tasks staring like open mouths—
and you grin and say alright, you get the couch, I get the chair,
tonight we are doing the bare minimum and calling it a win.
You do not tell me to try harder.
You do not suggest a walk, or a shower, or three things I am grateful for.
You just sit down, kick off your shoes,
put your feet under my leg,
and say fuck, today hit hard, huh
with that soft brow of yours.
You treat my empty tank like weather.
Not a moral failure.
Not a reason to pull back and leave me in it.
Come over, I am not okay and I am out of clean spoons,
that is the closest I get to please help, I am not fine.
You answer with keys in hand, snacks in a bag, jokes on your tongue,
no lecture, no checklist, just time.
You do not fix the broken parts.
You just keep me company in this cluttered room
while my head slowly resets from stagger to stand.
Come over, I am not okay and I am out of clean spoons,
and you still cross town for me with empty hands and open ones.
We eat straight from plastic trays,
sauce dripping, both of us staring at the muted screen
like either of us gives a shit about the plot.
I let myself rant about nothing and everything—
the message I did not answer,
the phone call I dodged,
the way my own heartbeat sometimes feels like a gunshot.
You do not jump in with wisdom.
You just nod, and throw in that is bullshit or yeah, I hate that too
every few minutes.
Every little curse from you lands like a blanket
over the parts of me that feel like bad news.
At some point you stand up, stretch, wander into the kitchen.
You run hot water without asking.
You wash exactly four plates, three forks, two cups.
You hum off-key, not judging, not tasking.
You come back smelling like dish soap and steam,
flop down again,
and we both know that tiny dent in the chaos
is doing more than any grand gesture could.
You are showing me how heavy it is to move at all on days like this,
and how much it matters that you moved anyway.
One day I will be the one driving over, mid-meltdown on your side of town,
arms full of junk food and clean mugs
and the patience you taught me.
I will kick your trash can with my heel,
mutter this place is a disaster
with a smile and mean every bit of kindness in that thought.
Until then, when my energy disappears like loose change
in a couch cushion I never find,
I will thank every tired star
that you read that short dumb text
as the red flare from my mind.
Come over, I am not okay and I am out of clean spoons
is not poetry.
It is just the truth when I hit the floor.
You treat it like an address, not a burden.
You punch it straight into your inner guide and head for the door.
You sit with me through the white noise,
through the scrolling,
through the silence,
through the nothing that weighs more
than any crisis I can speak of.
And that quiet presence—
your presence—
drags my pulse back toward shore.