sunshine, Zoloft. 

I don’t know if

Depression or

Anxiety has anything to do

With not being able to love you,

Or if it’s your own bipolar

Disorder. Disorder is the

Right word for my 

World now, which is entirely

Out of order. 

Still, for the first time in my life

I’ve been sleeping like 

Dead things at the bottom of the sea,

Like our dead children, like

The prospects for our future. 

That is, peacefully,

Resigned. 

There was a fire we doused with 

Feelings of inadequacy,

Miles of space between your

Understanding and mine. 

A bookstore that’s closing soon,

That’s full of pages we are not

On together.

I am bleeding irregularly. 

My body knew I wasn’t happy first. 

I thought this state of fatigue was

Life. 

This feeling of wading through 

Shed disappointment, which 

Falls from us like peeled skin. 

We keep adjusting our expectations

Downward as if we’re trying to keep our

Car from spinning out on this hill never

Stopping to realize that we are

Headed together in the wrong direction. 

I was tripping acid during the second miscarriage, the one

Where I must have been a couple of months along.

I saw the tiny shape in the toilet surrounded by a watery

Bloom of blood,

It looked like an impossibly 

Small doll. I flushed

And went back to the bedroom where you were

Watching television. 

I didn’t mention it to you until

Years later. I didn’t

Know what to say. 

Years of drinking and

Drug abuse and 

Depo-Provera made my 

Womb a wasteland. 

I am not even sad. 

I am chronic. I can’t find

Help because I chose you instead of

Family, instead of

Doctors, instead of my

Bright

Future. 

And you can’t help me, you can’t even

Help yourself. And I can’t

Help you. And there’s so little that we 

Can do, and the

Window is closing on us all the time. 

Advertisements