i fumble with my fork as my dad  tells me he "gets" my depression
sunday morning church crowd in a ******* barrel just off the interstate
i mumble something about refusing medication
he applauds me for being "strong"
which has always been the goal,
unattainable as that is.
"you're not independent enough.
you're 18
19
20
years old
so grow up
and pay your own bills."

"yes sir."

cut back to that cup of coffee
those eggs, bacon, back pain, old age
"i won't be here to see you guys have kids"
gee dad.
i love you too.

death has never been comfortable for anyone but liars.

or the dying.

the small jars of honey on the table are just asking to be
stolen.

The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.

the coffee was cold.
a day old.
i heated it.
poured it.
fought through it.

put on a b-film.
something about crap
films made our lives
feel more fulfilling.

we laughed.
exposed every flaw.
we held hands.
snuck
loving glances.

i have to wake up in three
hours, but all i can think
is life is luck,
even for the dumbest of us,
when you tell your
eyes to open up.