Posted in Poetry


haven’t figured out how
to live

with anti-depressants, yet.

Every year I choose
January 1st
as the starting point, but I am

never ready to go.

People tell me that I need to pick
better priorities, that my resolve should be more
tugboat than raft. What they don’t understand

is that popping pills is not
like saying “Hellllloooooo!”
to an Americano in the morning.

Fun fact,

it’s more like trying to fuck a girl
with hiccups: every crest has a trough and no one really ever gets off.
You both
find a way to accept the numb.



Trying to find the right words.

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