What Not Being Depressed Feels Like
Holly and I went down to sell plasma
seven days a week and never bled
a drop or squeezed centrifuge release
or felt the cold return
that exchanged money to burn.
Every time Holly and I arrived
shaking and glancing at other folks
who supplemented their odd habits
such as children and crushed pills
straight glass pipes and electric bills.
Every time we leafed through paperwork
every time shocked by the details of blood
and what doctors might find in the test
seven days I pushed the papers at
the nurse with whispered bullshit.
Same bullshit seven different ways all cuts the same.
Seventh day we sat on Holly’s bed
in her disgusting room where we bred flies
and traded most pleasant lies,
where I’d leave her when she’d cry
and I’d go fuck someone else.
The seventh day she lifted her face
quick away from the shimmering plate
And swallowed back something cheap and sharp.
Snorted with cute fist on nose
with a theory to propose
she asked, “is this what not being depressed feels like?”