My bones ache for death so much that
denying the urge becomes a nausea in
my throat. I am a waste. I am a waste. I
am a waste.

This sunk-cost fallacy of motherhood is a
myth, a legend, a joke. I am a waste. I am
a waste. I am a waste.

I am a well with no bottom. A whirlpool
with no water. A quicksand with no
haste. I am a waste. I am a waste. I am a
waste.

If my eyes are open then I must
consume until the very marrow has
been depleted, my lovers defeated. I am
a waste. I am a waste. I am a waste.

There is no substance in this life I fill
with hollow bravado. I thirst, I need, I
hunger and deserts follow. I am a waste.
I am a waste. I am Waste.

© Averil Sperry



(Side note: I'm fine. This poem and ones like it are intended to bring awareness to mental health struggles. Not to worry.)