how do i tell her
it may get darker,
the night longer—
what i know
from my hollow
and vacant days?
the night may stretch
you
thinner
than you ever thought
you could be
stretched
by damp sheets
twisted at your
wrists, elbows,
knees, ankles—
and you welcome it.
because getting up
and facing the day
feels like
a vortex of mud
and shrapnel
covered in bits of
your flesh
and blood—
pieces of you
missing
in action.
and now
you are stuck
to inaction.
you don’t know
how
or where you will
find
the switchblade
to cut yourself
loose
from its mocking
grin
to begin your life
again.
i don’t mean
it’s hopeless;
i never mean that.
i just know
encouragement
to face the day
cooks longer
on the grill
than
some pre-packaged
smile
someone will try to
hand
you—
like a flippant curse
to your inability
to rise above
and simply “be happy”
now.
as if they have some
idea
that depression and
happiness
are not even at war
anymore.
you’re caught
in the fallout,
the aftermath.
like a personal chernobyl,
the long-term effects
are still being
accounted for.
but i tell her
you can
because
i did—
and move the blade
a little closer.
© 2014 Jennifer
Wagner