In Which Every Depression Poem I’ve Ever Written Becomes A Love Poem (after Kate Hao)

As if everything's here, and gone the next.

As if she's here and he's gone the next.

That poem that sounds so good, you ignore the 23 clichés hidden beneath its similes- the one you read to your lover, and he gives you that smile, the really awkward smile that he gave you when they caught you staring at him that one time. you did that thing when you say sorry like a lot and explain yourself, like a lot, but it only makes them laugh, and hold you tight.

then he tells you he loves you, like a lot.

Then he's gone the next, and he has taken your words. it's like the air has turned to fire, and your body isn't yours anymore, it's just a fucking mistake.

Your body walks around, taking, grabbing, stealing, and tracking mud all over your skin, eating all the cereal.

It takes up more space than it really fucking deserves, and stays longer than anticipated.

Then it too leaves with your words.

it takes your soul, or what was left of it.

like your murderous ex boyfriend, it leaves your poems plastered on the bricks of that building downtown you love, the one by your sisters place.

you paint over it, but the murderous ex whispers murderous things, taunting you and teasing you, that's all he ever did!

Saying NA-NA-NA BOO-BOO! You can paint over me, but I'll still be here!

And you paint over him too, and when he turns and leaves, only to return again.

to tease you, and taunt you-

When he turns and leaves, he tracks paint in a direct beeline to your home. He walks in circles around your fence. Drips the acrylic onto your dog, paints the fiery red lilies in your garden whatever color he feels like.

He follows behind you, into your home, and locks the door behind him.

He sits on your couch.

He drinks your milk.

He paints the hardwood blue, and leaves "whoever the fuck I am was here," scribbled on the tiles of your shower.

he lays in bed with you every night. holding you, spooning you, cuddling you.

when you cry, he wipes your tears, smearing paint along your cheeks.

You fall asleep, to wake up and follow his trail to the bathroom, where he watches you scrub the paint off your face, and stomach and hips and chest, and hands.

he laughs when you cry, doing so.

he turns to leave.

but stops, at the door, where he used to stand when he'd watch you carefully with skinny fingers, apply your mascara,

Your murderous ex looks at you, and closes his eyes, and you step out of yourself for him.

You become something you are not.

You peel your skin off, and hand it to him, and your body leaves with him. your words, your art, your love, your skin.

It leaves you with paint under its fingernails!

It leaves you sitting in in your acrylic covered shower at 3 am, wondering where you went wrong.