Burnout (A Poem)

I feel guilty when I feel happiness. The two are interchangeable these days, it seems. They touch, bare palm against bare palm like the “Hands Across America” bullshit.

My mind is stuck on a pre-set station, only the songs playing are not ones that I’ve picked. 

“How are you?”, the teller at Chase bank asks me.

Does anybody ever really want an honest answer to that question? Because I’m dehydrated. 

I haven’t showered in a week and I’m finding it difficult to straighten my back or pay attention or breathe, and no sleep in the world could quench my restlessness. 
I feel upset for liking my life. Now is not the time to like anything. 

And to be honest, I just want Shari from Chase bank to give me my fucking quarters so I can go to the laundromat and wash the weight of the world off of my clothing.

I’d like to feel sane, at least for a couple of hours. 

But that is not what I tell Shari, because people are uncomfortable with honesty. Especially Shari. She likes pleasantries and repartee; you can tell by the paisley scarf she’s wearing. 

So, I say, “Hanging in there!”, and collect my quarters and slump home under the beating sun with my poor posture, dry throat, and opaque mind.

I will never be okay with how good I have it.