Let me have this.
Let me be a great big mess.
Cover up my face, don’t look, but let
me fret that this is the best you can get
I asked, “Will you be tired of this?”
You said, “For 13 years, I’d be tired of this.”
I asked, “For one?”
Because the depressed don’t respect real time.
It doesn’t exist.
Every year is thirteen.
And you answered but I don’t know how,
probably saying, “It won’t stay this way,” but I didn’t quite catch
what you said because I was thinking in paragraphs.
I thought, “I will be this way forever.
This does not improve. I will not get better.
The devil I have is here, I am she,
and you will leave me, because this was not on the packaging.”
So I looked away from you and looked at nothing,
ashamed of my false advertising.
You saw something in my face I couldn’t, so you sat on the bed,
wrapped me in a blanket,
swaddled my head,
And I wept for us both.
But I wept for me more,
that you’d tired of me, and that I would be alone and die alone,
as I always suspected. I expected nothing more until I came to you,
when I was doped on meds and
I doped you, too.
I’m sorry that I doped you, too.
I said, “I feel hopeless.”
And cried some more.
You were rubbing my back and the track looped in my head, that symphony
of dead-ends and sorrow and knives,
and you were rubbing my back, so gentle, so locked in life
while I was crying in your arms, locked out of it,
begging for someone to open the door,
and I cried some more, and I cried some more.