Unactioned Emails, Solid Plans

I stop shaving my legs: not feminism
but a jettison of the energy drain. Thank God
my brightly coloured dresses peacock for me.
I run for the toilet at every opportunity, certain
my bladder will rupture. I press tumour-hunter
fingers to my belly but there is only fat,
just as there is only ever dust in the nit comb.
My manager looks at my hands when he says,
last week you looked like you might’ve been doing
better. In team meetings we pretend that I am not
mining deep, miming the full force of my personality.
The unactioned emails in my inbox keep changing.
I’ve produced plans for a project it looks like someone
else will have to complete. They are solid plans.
I don’t remember writing them.
                               Sick leave should be
better than losing the job if not better than keeping it.
In the first weeks my face salt-cracks with every smile.
I sit in the park by the doctors and suncream my neck
and poke at should-have-tried-harders. Forgiveness
is an ongoing project and recovery seeps through
in impatient increments. This weekend I have not kept
myself awake because I might
at some point in the night
need the loo.

Proud and Unsure

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