Hundred Days

Day 29
Poem 28

It’s been 100 days with this president, and I’m tired.

Hundred Days

It’s been a hundred day panic
attack, like when I used to lie
on the floor, door locked, lights
off, wishing to be less afraid of death
so I could finally give in. If I survived
that, maybe I can survive this. If only
I could sleep a hundred years, days,
one-hundred hours, wake again to
a new world. Instead, we do
these things to make us
sick–the dog eating
grass, me opening
my eyes.


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