jesus, i'm tired

jesus, i'm tired, I say
to no one.
lifting my leg up to remove
a crusted boot.
Christ, i'm weary,
I murmur,
staring at the shadowed
cross
I've nailed
to the far wall
beside the picture of trees.
I slide off my
pants, remove my
shirt, letting them fall
to the floor.
I sit on the edge of the bed
and look
at my father's hands.
I want to think
that it's a good tired,
but I can't
say that.
instead I lie back and let
sleep
become me.