Trigger Warning: This poem contains dark themes and is intended for audiences who can handle these themes. If you are experiencing symptoms of depression or suicidal thoughts, please see a mental health professional or refer to my list found here.

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Before you ask,
yes,
I am feeling sad and hopeless,
and I do have a lack of pleasure
in doing things I previously enjoyed —
like writing poetry or talking
to my imaginary friends.

& yes, I’m aware
how it makes me sound
when I say “talking to my imaginary friends”
but I’m an author and a poet,
I play with words for fun.

This isn’t fun
for me.
These wellness checks.
These inventories on my feelings:
check “yes” or “no”,
rate your feelings on a scale.

Most days, I’d rather paint you
a watercolor of my emotions,
let the feelings wash together until
you can’t tell ecstatic bliss
from despondency.

But today,
before you ask,
words are falling apart,
they’re fragile ghosts who haunt me
but don’t seem to speak my language.

Before you ask,
the poet in me doesn’t want to waste
the paper.
She thinks it’s better used
for a brilliant mathematician
cycling through his numbers
or a census-taker calculating persons
than to listen to her trivial whining.

Yet here I go.

Before you ask,
yes, I suppose it’s natural
to plan these things.
To work out the logistics of life
and to perhaps even plot out
the details of death.
But I’m not Sylvia Plath,
contemplating the temperature to set
my oven,
nor am I going to the ocean
with stones weighing down my pockets.

I have too many plans.
Too many things to do.
I would have too many goodbyes to say.
Too many books to donate.
I still have unfinished stories burning
in me.
Before you ask,
the light in my eyes flickers
and yes, even dulls,
but though the disease tries to steal me,
as I go through these inventory questions,
I discover
I’m not ready to leave

just yet.

Isabelle Palerma