Beneath the Surface

It was not their leaving that depressed her. 

The depression was always there, 

Hiding beneath the surface,

The baseline for her existence 

The stage upon which the play unfolded, 

Waiting for the right concoction of events to help it boil over. 

Their leaving was merely the final flame 

The straw that broke the camel’s back, 

The ripping of the veil from a psyche 

Shrouded in itself.

The depression would not go away on its own. 

No, no, no. It had plans. It had arms to stretch. It was trying to make itself known, 

And so it was, in half pints of whiskey 

In Tall boy PBRs

And shots of absinthe. 

In not wearing her seatbelt 

Or eating with any regularity. 

In crying alone at the park, 

Looking at trees and saying, 

With too much incredulity, 

‘I exist.’

And now, asleep on her bed 

With a cub scout bandana 

Tied round her neck, 

And a snoring dog, 

And a cat peering out the window into the dark,

It was clear what this was. 

This was the initiation, 

The gateway into that heretofore masked part of herself. 

An unfulfilled despair finally coming to the light.


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