This winter, as I work in a community I am inspired by,
play with my sweet and glowing children, and meet with friends I love...
my heart feels left
my fingers wince and whine
a tooth needs to be pulled from its swollen bed
my feet don't work, the ankles and knees follow,
and my hips keep bumping into all the sharp corners of my past
finding myself still there
a bitch humping a memory.
I am a functioning depressive.
I still have happiness, shards of clear glass
cutting into palms as I grip them.
I find myself trying to convince people around me that I'm okay,
to assuage their responsibility over my state of sadness.
The guilt of being sad is as bad as the sad.
It's winter and I'm sitting in despair