For days when you haven’t felt like yourself (a poem)

Stepping out of the house into
flake ridden air is the
first reminder.
There was a darkness once,
behind the ribcage.
Rearing itself upon your face and
within your words.
Okay, not once. But almost always.

Stumbling into a serious type of happiness
came uneasily.
Why should you love when so many others die?
You remember this new type of darkness,
a deep blue type of darkness,
like it was yesterday.
Because it was.
And this morning you awoke to a weighted blanket of snow.

Now? I don’t know. Darkness does not just
go away.
Or does it?
Can you choose?
Can it choose you?
Will you stride?
Can you step with no stumble?
This snow will melt today.

The darkness will still live.
But turquoise veins are
running through your ribcage.