I often tire of the matter in my skull.
The damaged cells only remember
what I wish they wouldn’t.

It’s not supposed to hurt anymore.

Pills are a good glue, I guess,
but not good enough
(just like me).

I am broken.
I can be stabilized,
but not repaired.

I wonder if it’s nice to be whole.

But I’m too alive to be dying,
and too happy to be crying.
I look separable from my disease,
but I can only partially differentiate
the truth from my expression.

I am not independent
of my depression.