You will ask me where it hurts
Like I can point to a map and say
There
That is where depression slipped a bag over my head and made off with the sunshine that I carried in my pocket.

You will ask me why it hurts
Like I can say
Well,
At 3:00 pm this afternoon, I was sitting in traffic, minding my own business, when Anxiety cut in front of me. I slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision. I've had pains in my neck all evening from whiplash.

You will put on white gloves, want to examine me and fix it.
I will let you listen to my heartbeat with a stethescope.
You can put a popsicle on my tongue and I can say, "I'm fine. It's fine."

Because the pain isn't tangible.
And nothing seems wrong.

I could demand an x-ray
And you would see the bones of a perfectly structured life
A house
A job
A family
A purpose
A white picket fence of a ribcage to match those pearly whites I flash for show, because

I don't know where or what is  hurting
(I can just tell that it hurts)

I suffer from failure
Well
What kind of failure?
You would ask.
Liver failure, heart failure, kidney failure-
No

Something inside me has gone out
I'm still walking
Still seeing
Breathing
Dreaming

But the light is gone

Somewhere between my chest and my head, a wire's been cut
The power is dead
I know that as long as my spinal cord is intact, a current is running

But where is my present self?
Why do I feel like I'm dragging, slowing, sitting down until someone finds me

Illness consumes me.