Come Over, I’m Not Okay And I’m Out Of Clean Spoons
I text you from the couch
with one thumb
screen too bright for my headache
dishes stacked like a wall in the sink
that I pretend I cannot see
Write and erase three versions
of “hey, I am not doing great”
before settling on
“come over, I am not okay
and I am out of clean spoons”
That is it
that is me
The floor is a graveyard of laundry
the trash can is full
my brain has been humming
the same ugly chorus
since three in the morning
I am not dying
I am just stuck in that glue
where brushing my teeth
feels like climbing a wet wall
with no warning
You turn up without asking for details
hoodie thrown on over pajamas
hair a mess
shoes untied
tapping on the door
like it might break
Holding grocery store sushi
cheap cookies
and two bottled drinks
saying “I did not know what you needed
so I brought choices for the ache”
You take one look around
clock the chaos
the smell of takeout
the half-finished tasks
that stare like open mouths
Then you grin and say
“alright, you get the couch
I get the chair
tonight we are doing the bare minimum
and getting out”
You do not tell me to try harder
or go for a walk
or write 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”
You treat my empty tank like weather
not a moral failure
not a reason to pull back
We eat straight from plastic trays
sauce dripping
both of us staring
at the muted movie on the screen
like we care about the plot
You let me rant
about nothing and everything
from the message I did not answer
to the phone call I dodged
to the way my own heartbeat
feels like a shot
You do not jump in with wisdom
you just nod
throw in the occasional
“that is bullshit”
or “yeah, I hate that too”
Every little curse from you
lands like a blanket
on the parts of me
that feel like bad news
At some point you stand up
stretch
wander into the kitchen
and run hot water without asking
Wash exactly four plates
three forks
two cups
humming off-key
not judging
Come back smelling like dish soap
and steam
flop down again
and we both know
that tiny dent in the chaos
is how much it matters
that you did something
instead of just watching
One day I will be the one driving over
mid meltdown on your side
arms full of junk food
and clean mugs
and the patience you taught
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
thank every tired star
that you read that short dumb text
as the red flare
from my mind