This poem was originally posted on my Substack account on May 24, 2026. The original post can be viewed here.
Habituation.
May 22, 2026.
I want to write
something heartwrenching
about this pain, but
it isn’t like that.
It’s something kin to boredom.
If you could be bored and terrified
all at once.
The violence floods, faster
than my mind can
make sense of it.
My body aches, and
I am so practiced
at coping, on the outside
it looks like rest.
She asks what I did today.
“I stayed in bed till noon,
and I harvested arugula
from the garden, and
I took a nap.”
“How relaxing!”
I don’t tell her how badly
my bones ached, or how
I couldn’t open my eyes,
or how the small
of my back played host
to a wildfire.
Or how
I’ve rested for years now,
and never seem to
get any less tired.
I just smile a half smile
that strains the muscles of my face.
Makes my jaw hurt. Makes me
wonder for the fifth time today
whether this is all really worth it.
It is.
For now.
If only because there’s
too much evil in this world,
and I plan to go down swinging.
