In the dim light,
I sang
the morning
to a puppy, who
looked up
at me like
I was a
psychedelic

god

and I,
with hands full of flesh
and bone,
lifted her to my
cheek
and felt

omnipotent.

I feel guilty because I am considered essential; I hate the word and I hate what comes with it.

So many people are without jobs.

I wish I were one of them.

Depression
is a sadist
for whom
there
is
no
safeword

You
fight back
or you
drown

I refuse
to drown

Before the rain came, I wandered outside, pulling stray weeds, and assessing the state of things as spring is so very slowly beginning to show her face. I walked through The Graveyard to the north of the house, named for reasons I barely remember, none of which include death. I thought of friends I missed, and I thought of past loves who still sometimes demand tears whenever I remember who we used to be.

Sometimes I wonder if I ever knew how to love.

It was pretty outside, before the storm. Now it is dim and grey and I’m curled into the corner of the couch watching heavy clouds which are not moving. They hang thickly in the sky, as I consider them through the tall windows.

Today I hate everyone.

I don’t trust this feeling; I know it is fleeting. This irritability, this annoyance, this complete impatience with people. I know it well. I used to think, when it came, that it was a manifestation of depression, of anxiety. Of something within myself that needed fixing.

But, no. I’m not internalizing this any longer. I refuse.

People are horrible sometimes. They just are. They can be ignorant and selfish. They can be downright mean. As the pandemic progresses, it’s been interesting to observe how human beings react when things, activities, communities, responsibilities, or connections outside of themselves fall away. It’s been interesting to watch and experience this happening to myself as well.

Who am I, when it’s just me?

I used to write.

I ran out of places to put my words. I don’t want to write messy stories hidden away in secret diaries for my great-grandchildren to find a hundred years from tomorrow.

It is April. I put my favorite summer dress today, but not because the weather asked it of me. It has been cool and rainy. I wanted to feel summer, and I wanted to wear summer today. I kept my legs bare, left my hair loose, and threw on a large charcoal grey cardigan that reaches my knees over the bright blue dress that stops mid-thigh.

My head aches. The dress is not helping. I want to pretend everything is normal; boring.

Everything is not normal.