A Love Poem for Cary Grant (the name I gave my depression)
I tell my friend I think about suicide every night, the thought a pillow mint savored like a chocolaty secret, delicious.
It’s the first time I’ve been casual about anything; she nods like an orange rolling off the fruit display onto the floor, trying to recover her cratered expectations.
She reaches for my hand to encourage, but I can’t feel my fingers or the dimpled chin, don’t feel much of anything in my Mayfair Hotel. I’m beginning to begrudge all this chocolate under my tongue.
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