I like my old house, with the big
backyard, on that lonely little
road: home, a touchstone.

Wrapped in my duvet of silence,
tracing the bumps of the popcorn
ceiling with glazed eyes while she
brushes hair behind my ear.

"You may be depressed, but you're
not crazy crazy."

Thanks Mama.

So I don't tell her about my road
trip with psychosis, or the pile of
suicide notes rotting in our county
landfill.

There are some things she doesn't
need to know.

Blue insides, I always thought I'd be
quick enough to catch the blood
before oxygen claimed it red.

Light bulbs flicker for days before
they go out, but knowing the warning
signs has never changed this relentless
ending.

This wallet is special, I remind myself.
It has my brother's preschool graduation
picture tucked inside,

his smile, all teeth, with gaps he pokes his
tongue through, and bright, clear blue eyes.
He has never seen a scar in his life.

When I start to wonder why I bother,
I make myself look at the photo.