empty poem

Under my blankets, alone:
. this is the place where you are enough. you, by having a body, have the right to exist.
This threshhold balls up with other monotonies
seizing at the cold every morning walking to the subway
picking a skirt to wear by the dresser
packing lunch, brushing teeth.
staring blankly at the screen.

Permission, over and over, to take the time to wallow.
compelled to be empty, brain glazed. I let myself. I give myself permission, usually,
 before I just give in.
it doesn't always feel this way, but  it's felt this way before.
presence is an anamoly, any excitement is proof.
Repeating, against the larger picture
you are holding yourself together.
you're going to be okay, you're going to be okay, you're going to be okay, you're going to be okay
you're going to be okay.