Not me. The world. Three decades medicated,
and still depressed. Though some found relief
for abbreviated maladies from OCD to PMS.
My 20-mg days as someone else who
some liked more, and some liked less.
This is the work of darkness – not
just night – but that other lacking time
when light is unseen. It is chiaroscuro.
Without art. Under an arch of lamentation,
these three days have been midnight unmoving.
Even some who never read your poetry,
know about your suicide, troubled marriage, depression,
and life in the bell jar vacuum.
This cold day, I see you young,
a happy, blonde dream on a beach.