Burnout

It creeps up on you.

Because at first it feels like light.

Your wick is fresh and waxy.

You have so much to give.

You’re on fire, baby!

But eventually,

After you’ve been burning for a while

And you’re sitting in a puddle of yourself

And your wick is charred

And what little is left of you melts steadily down,

You find yourself - At 2:17 p.m. on a random Tuesday -

Just wanting to scream

And scream

And scream

At the top of your lungs -

A guttural scream without words.

Because there are no words

For this insidious state.

Nothing is wrong, per se,

But everything is wrong.

You’re well equipped for your tasks,

But you don’t have what you need.

You are capable of making decisions,

And yet crippled by uncertainty.

But you don’t scream,

Because that would scare your coworkers.

And you don’t cry,

Because only toddlers get to cry when they’re tired.

And you don’t get up and leave,

Because that would lead to too many questions That you just don’t have the energy to answer.

So you stare blankly at your computer

Or your writing page

Or your phone

Or your students Or your family

Or the stove Or the coffee pot Or the cash register Or the road

And you just scream on the inside

As your final reserves drip, drop, melt away.