I always have a cowlick standing straight up like Alfalfa.
Another day has passed and I have yet to put away the laundry.
My husband waits patiently for me to come home so we can eat
dinner together, but I already ate.
Even though I keep meaning to practice yoga, the mat is folded
on top of all the books without a shelf.
No matter what I say, I still struggle with anxiety.
Oftentimes, I’m too tired to be a good friend or wife or lover.
Underneath all the smiles and all the kind words, I’m still
fighting my depression.
God, I can’t even think straight most days.
How come I never feel like…enough?