and you know, sometimes i almost think
you are avoiding me, staring straight ahead of you and
the impromptu greetings you drop are few and far apart.
you live your high-society life floating on the admiration of people
like i used to be (you are nice you are funny and we all love you
so much) and while you handle the act like a casual diva, i can't help wondering
how much of your charisma is genuine.

inhale, exhale
in all your chain-smoking glory
used to catch me spontaneously contemplating emphysema
smoke clears, cancer spreads-
your lungs blacken. we die.
it is your unintentional suicide-or not, since who am i to speak for you
this slow death you might have chosen yourself
for all i know.

i think about the little girl i never met,
the angst-filled teenager scrawling her morbid poem-thoughts and
never fitting in anywhere at all
reminds me of me
or who i used to be.

depression is not so much a feeling
as it is a state of mind.
it shouldn't make a difference anymore,
now that we've written our tearful epilogues-
those stories were not ones meant to be told.

soon, i will be telling someone else
she still wanted to read my scribbles...but somehow i don't think she'd like this one.