plastic pity party

a poem

i drink from plastic water bottles

(shame.)

because i can only do so much.

“it is literally one dish to wash…”

executive function is a chain

which hangs from my neck.

crybaby.

I work hard—it makes me sweat;

so i drink from plastic water bottles,

because it’s easy.

and every few weeks i try to switch

to the stainless steel ones—

i have a boatload of them.

they sit on the counter, nice and clean;

i fill them up—i promise myself

i’ll wash them.

but days go by

(feeling more like hours)

and those reusable bottles

link themselves to the chain.

bacteria multiplies inside them,

as they hang

from my neck like an albatross.

as i reach for another

plastic water bottle,

my therapist tells me “it’s ok,” and

the albatross

dies again.

shame.

“i just have to remember to wash these later.”

no time for that,

because i have to get to the laundromat.

and i have to get my daughter from school

(and return these fucking bottles)

and i have to go to work.

i’m proud of myself—

for getting back to work after the psych ward.

but there’s so much to do.

“don’t forget to make time for yourself/your mental health.”

yeah... that too.

and i just finished TMS

so there’s a lot of catching up to do, and i

cut corners.

and the pride i felt

spills out of my

plastic

water

bottle

;it drips down onto the albatross—

but at least i’m not dead.

i get home

after a long day

of fighting to function just the same

as everyone else.

the psych ward still drags behind me, on my chain,

plowing piles of to-dos along with it;

cutting into the ground,

ripping up the sidewalks

all over town,

and the parking lot

of the laundromat.

at least 3 reusable water bottles

which now, need to be scrubbed,

are buried under

clothes

receipts

and plastic. fucking. water bottles.

on the floor beneath the passenger seat

of my honda civic.

so no, we shouldn’t take my car.

shame.

but at least i’m not in the psych ward.

SHAME.

don’t talk about the psych ward.

SHAME.

“what does that all have to do with me?”

begs the ghost of the albatross.

modern mariner.

moral injury.

“get back to work,” like it’s that easy.

and the 10¢ redemption i didn’t deserve.

pain which feels melodramatic

and performative

over a fucking plastic water bottle.

---

i pulled heavy inspiration for this poem from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a poem which i discovered high school, only after falling in love with Iron Maiden’s freaking pure genius song Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

thank you for reading (or listening) 🖤

em

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