I sit at my kitchen table in work clothes

I sit at my kitchen table in work clothes.

My shoulders are still held the way I hold them there,

tight and high,

ready.

My voice is still careful.

Even now, alone, with the fridge humming behind me,

I'm using the voice that doesn't take up too much space.

The voice that apologizes before it asks.

My hands are on the table.

They're still tense.

Still ready to type,

to reach for something,

to fix something.

To do.

There's dinner in front of me that I made an hour ago.

It's cold now.

I haven't touched it.

The person who sits here

is supposed to be different from the person at the office.

Supposed to relax.

Supposed to stop.

But the office is still happening inside me.

The lights are still on.

The people are still talking.

The email is still waiting.

And I'm still here,

at this table,

performing rest,

not able to actually stop.