Why is it surprising?
That I can find love,
and still feel like dying.
Have you tried it?
The vacancy of living
underneath yourself.
Have they pushed you
in change rooms?
Left you half naked
to a party you threw.
I have played nice,
pressed his linens.
Gave my shoulders
for weights I can
now choose.
Even when I find
love again.
It’s not enough
to solve a labyrinth.
I’m only assured
by the consistent
accuracy of depression.
Four particular walls
I can depend on
crying behind.