Seeds of my own

I like this time alone, at home
to think, reassess, figure out
what truly matters 

Why do I feel pressure, still?
Why do I want to distance myself further, still?
away from the Internet, from people, from family, from friends
from work—the expectation of work—the clock, the Zoom—
the fucking Zoom

Why do I feel pressure, still?
to show up, to apply makeup, to think
about the colors of my shirt, the part of my hair
the backdrop, the lighting, the sound
of my voice, the expression on my face, lifted up
by my smile 

those who have eyes to see, understand
my need to rest, sleep, think—or not
my need to make the bed—or not
take out the trash—or not
take a bath—or not
cook, clean, pick up after myself—or not

those who have eyes to see, understand
my need to just lie here, and die—or not 
those who know me, understand
I will come back when I am ready, when
no one misses or remembers my name
when I can be free, truly
to do what I want with no one watching, waiting, expecting
me to show up

I will plant seeds of my own, I will be fed
on my own, I will become
what I need, want
all on my own