which is to say, I don’t.
because I haven’t been to therapy since college.
should go, though.
been talking to the bottle a lot.
been texting people I shouldn’t,
looking for survival in cheap nights
and trips I can’t afford.
been disguising it as fun.
there is a bluebird in the front yard
who hobbles a bit as he walks,
one wing seems weaker than the other,
gets winded easily.
I watch him fly to the same spot every day.
wait on the edge of our mailbox,
looking and teetering and
trying to stay in one piece.
no song in his mouth,
hoping for something.
I don’t believe in the paranormal,
but here you are,
a ghost at the foot of the bed,
even when I can’t see you,
I know you’re there.
there is no exorcism for this.
my feet coated in cement,
waiting for something
I don’t think is ever coming.