V. H. King's Ink

at what point do i stop
telling my friends I'm 
sad weary scared lonely
overwhelmed because

aren't we all? chronically
under-supported exhausted
bodies crawling through 
another gauntlet of bureaucracy 

only to see funding slashed 
at the guillotine. cheaper to
kill our dreams, let us die
slowly, labcoats gaslighting
the way to our final chambers. 

who could possibly help us
when everyone's hands are tied
up, gloating as loud as goats 
screaming thank god I'm not you!

change and chance like sand
on the never-ending shores
of shrinking into what small 
comforts we can barely afford
to give up, let alone keep close.

am i just being dramatic again? 
it's hard to tell sometimes, but
all my disabled crip friends
clamor: unanimous rioting against
every application and appeal
and claim denied. if im teetering 

manic tonight, should i say 
anything about it? or what if 
i keep my mouth shut and just 
bleed this out some other way?

nothing will change, i tell myself. 
you will always feel this way
because you always have.
there is never not this—

but
and
yet
even
so—
how

will you choose to live?
until you can't anymore?
wasn't that always the plan?