because I live in the grip
of the longest and fiercest depression I’ve suffered in years

because I’ve tried most of the drugs
and every last one of them failed

because I keep hoping
that this will get better

because I am losing my grip

because I lie awake nights
tormented by memory and music

because I am ready to let it all go
and each little failure feels like the end of the world

because I have never been late
and now I am late all the time

because I am starting to lose all I was, am, and will be
because all that remains is a falsehood
because the thoughts have returned
because I keep putting a brave face on it
muddling through

because I am certain
that nobody knows how I feel
not anyone
nobody

because I have made my own bed
and now I must lie in it

I am writing this

one last pronouncement
one last provocation
one last desperate lurch
one last plea for pardon
for a commuted,
a transmuted sentence

now

before the teeth of the winter close in
before nightfall
before the end of all things
and in the face of the Ruiner that reigns
in the face
of the wild joy—
almost forgotten—
of being

next week
next week
please, dear G-d,
let next week be better.

(Sorry about wonky formatting.  I don’t have it in me to futz around with the CSS that drives layout on this thing right now.)