(and it isn’t even gilded)

I said, “Apathy has never really been my thing,”

and he laughed. But I lied. It was a bald-faced lie

the likes of which I usually tell. But he laughed.

Lives – like lies – are complicated things. Living is hard.

You do what you’re told, what everyone expects,

and you’re supposed to make it. You’re supposed

to succeed. Only you’re left with mountains of debt,

a retail job, and a group of friends you rarely see.

But apathy has never really been your thing.

My thing.

Our thing?

It’s a lie – apathy is the only way we make

it through the day-to-day dullness, the repetition

of speech and movement, patterns burned

into muscle-memory, synapses, teeth, and tongue.

“Thanks so much for coming in today.

Have a wonderful trip.” False smiles. False cheer.

Sometimes I roll my eyes so hard I feel

like I’m dislocating something inside. Nothing vital.

Optic nerves remain undamaged, but the effort

is cathartic.

It turns into an ‘us’ versus ‘them’ that wouldn’t normally

exist. We serve them. They bitch and moan –

tax on the newspapers? It’s a conspiracy. Big Brother

is watching. You’re part of the problem. Right.

Right – just like that. I’m part of the problem

and so are you. So you coat yourself in apathy, you steep

in it, absorb it, make it a part of your routine.

Management piles responsibility upon your shoulders

and you grip that apathy, knuckles whitening.

You hold on to it because that shared apathy

is the only thing that gets you through the constant

interaction. Or I hold onto it, anyway. When my cheeks

ache from smiling, teeth clenching as I hold back

honest opinions, grind them to dust - when people

ask the same questions over and over again -

when they can’t find the books in front of their faces,

when they don’t know where their gates

are or which restaurant is where – I hold

onto it. I tell myself, “Two more hours.”

I tell myself, “One more hour.” I tell myself,

“Just half an hour.”

And as the minutes tick-tock away, slipping

through fingers too numb to notice the loss,

I wonder what I might have done if the apathy

hadn’t sunk its claws in so deep so early on? 

If my father had yelled and smoked less, held

off on the tequila. See, it’s an old friend, apathy.

Not just a new-found coping mechanism,

but a tried and true one. Distance makes the heart

grow fonder, they say – or forgetful. I want

to forget. The violence, the mood swings,

the taketaketake of life with a man who’s supposed

to protect you and love you but doesn’t. He doesn’t

and you don’t know why – life isn’t fair. Good

people die, bad people thrive. Not feeling is better –

I tell myself that.

So I strip myself down. I leave myself bare. Empty

eyes cobble together convenient lies so no one

will notice. And then I hide. I open a book. I log

into my email. I used to make phone calls

but even that’s too real now. Too vivid. I want to hear

what you have to say but letting it touch

me would break through the fugue that surrounds

me and it’s so much easier to just leave

it alone. To weave one barely-there experience

into another, pretend everything is alright, smile

the fake smiles, never meet anyone’s eyes.

Hush, hush. It’s easier. It will get easier.

If it’s easier, why do I find myself staring at the ceiling

in the middle of the night, half bored and half broken,

lonely in a way that I will never admit to anyone else.

Almost. That is almost true, but even now I find myself

spilling accidental lies.

I don’t miss her.

I don’t want him.

I am not as alone as I think I am.

The pills don’t really matter –

I can toss them any time I want.

I don’t have a problem.

This life-long countdown measures my apathy.

I’m not like that guy in that movie –

I don’t want anyone to shake me out of it.

Or am I lying again? Do I respect you enough

to tell you the truth? Will it ring through your mind,

echo in the hollows behind your ears, distort

as it reverberates? Will you understand

it for what it is, read between the invisible lines?

Will you put forth the effort?

Is any of this worth it?

I don’t know. I don’t know and I tell myself

that I don’t care. Because not caring is easier.

Not caring doesn’t leave me thinking about autumn chills,

Orion sweeping across the sky, and crickets who really

should have died months ago. Or are they dying now?

Everything dies.

If I tell you that’s all I’m waiting for,

what would you do?