I invited the wolves at the door in for tea.
We calmly discussed my circumstances:
No money to pay rent,
No fulfillment in waiting tables,
No way to silence the noise catapulting through my brain.
Their crash-and-burn solutions were inelegant,
but held a certain visceral appeal.

I could drop it all and drive through the dizzying heat
in my old, un-air conditioned Ford.
I could drop out of college--why not?
I've flunked three semesters in a row.
I could balance just enough caliber under the ceiling of my mouth,
and pull a trigger.
The *******-esque spatter of blood
would be my crowning artistic achievement.

"You're not getting any better," the wolves explained.
They were right.
The sinister beauty of depression is in its ups and downs,
the way it coaxes you into believing, just maybe,
you're finally getting better,
you've finally escaped the labyrinth,
but the wolves always come knocking again.

They always seem to know where to find me.