"Death of the Melancholy" by Kate Foley
And it hit me, a baseball in a batting
cage called Manic Depression.
The Oh-Christ-not-another-suicidal-episode.
The when-does-the-altitude-come-back.
How could the melancholy hit me so fast
when all it ever does is slow me down?
The side of my cheek swollen
from the impact of another punch,
I eat nothing for thirty-six hours
then two pints of Ben & Jerry’s.
I move at the speed of a ketamine
overdose. I try to ply the blade out
of a disposable razor. I skip shaving.
I skip showers. I tell my roommates
I’m fine. Every symptom controlling
and then it hits me, it won’t always be like this.
I won’t be bound to my bedposts
nor will I be victim to Lifetime movie
marathons nor will I drink a gallon
of liquor, just to pass the day away.
This is just another episode,
not an entire television series.
*previously published in the bird hours
(where are you press, 2017)