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"Death of the Melancholy" by Kate Foley
 

And it hit me, a baseball in a batting 
cage called Manic Depression.

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The Oh-Christ-not-another-suicidal-episode. 
The when-does-the-altitude-come-back.

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How could the melancholy hit me so fast 
when all it ever does is slow me down?

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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. 
 

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*previously published in the bird hours

(where are you press, 2017)

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