Oh, wait, maybe Depression?
No, the first two
don’t get to hang out long
enough to become the third guest.
I see you moping behind my gray matter,
peeking a curious glance at my soul.
Hoping to stay for longer than a cup of tea,
or glass of wine.
You want to be acknowledged. I don’t mind.
Embraced and even accepted, that’s fine, too.
But, oh, you dark sexy Melancholy and sweet Sadness,
you don’t get to feast with me for weeks, or
eat out of my fridge.
You don’t get to dance to drumbeats in my head every other day,
or fuck me over again.
This time around,
you are temporary guests.
I’ve already given you my best.