At a bus stop, she sits for half an hour.
Where am I? She asks, her throat sour.
I don’t want to go home,
But 17%, says the life of her phone.
What are these, these hot streams of liquid,
Copiously blanketing the scarred canvas,
Are they the proceeds,
Of feelings never spoken?
Where from did these emotions come,
When did the old ones depart?
She punches in some words,
Unsure of what to do with the racing beats of her heart.
A mentally-checked list of the signs
Tells her what’s going on.
At least she knows now,
How to carry on.
She grumbles in baritone,
As time passed unbeknown,
1%, says the life on her phone.
Here we go.
I think I have depression.
Shocking news? Shocked that I have depression or that I’m writing about my mental state so openly and unreservedly?
Or maybe you saw it coming.
I didn’t, however.