You howl across the smartphone speakers
“unstable”
I roar back,
“healing.”
Ah, semantics.

You cling to definitions tighter than static
Your arguments are magnets to my geyser:
stuck, yet I flow on

You build a face for the day,
reinforce it, ready for the wrecking ***** in our vernacular
nothing will shake your perspective
your eyes are glasses to our periscope

The things you’ve been told are just that
and my illness doesn’t make me any less blood and bone
any less ups and downs
any less success and collapse
than you
despite what you’ve heard about depression from some friends or a Facebook post
it’s more than a daily beast
it’s a mountain to climb with only one arm
and I’m on my way to stable footing

You want to attach words like “lazy” and “uncaring” to my identity
go ahead, I pick them off like fleas
they can only drain me for as long as I let them.

I will say “suffering”
you might say “a lil’ sad”
we both sit there, hoping truth blessed us with its language

Only one thing is for certain.
Whatever “it” may be
It.
Won’t.
Stop.
Me.