Some days, there are more flies than others.
Sometimes, I notice. Other times, they
trace my legs politely and without disturbing.
Some days, my body is startled by depression
before my brain can say its name. I sleep longer
I eat too much only once in 72 hours. The voices
collect in hives in corners of my brain I can’t reach.
I don’t shower. I collect all my sweat and dead
skin and that is how I keep myself. The flies feed
on my lonely. I only notice the company, never
the feast that grief makes. I cook the best meals
when I feel the most empty and still I don’t
consume them, just set the table, decorate the
dining room for flies so they will leave. I drink
to stop the residual buzzing, so the throbbing
quells. Nothing dissipates a hum like hunger
and dry heaving. Some days, the flies collect
beside my pillow and resemble a lover, cast an
indent in the mattress. I am tickled by their company.
I reach for them. They scatter.