tonight the fog is thick.
My family eyes my plate,
you tell me the things
they've learned not to;
gradually, my friends give
up asking me to lunch.
Most people never get better.
I've waited half my life to stop
being sick, yet recovery still
horrifies me. This is the only
thing I remember how to do.
Did you know that this has
the highest mortality rate of
every single mental illness?
I know I'll die of heart failure.
I might be seventy-seven,
I might be twenty-five.
No one needs to worry,
or even know. I'm not
even really sick, these days.
I'm a failure at my own flaws.
I can't remember what the
point of this is. I can't remember
anything, anymore, just this:
My steadfast stomach
will sing me to sleep, it will
wail to wake me up again,
some days my head will be
too fuzzy and grey for either.
Some nights I'll lose to the fog.
My head is a boulder
my feet are deeply buried anchors,
this heaviness is a burden that
you can't lift for me, (but please,
don't let it pull me into the earth).
I may not get better, but I would slave,
alone, to reel in an armada's worth
of anchors
to be able to sail alongside of you,
alive.