People You See At Funerals
The thing no
One prepares you
For
Is the loneliness
Of adulthood,
As friends scatter
Like ashes in
The wind,
Meeting once every
Year or so
At wakes or
Weddings,
And that friendship
Sits on a shelf
In the back
Of a closet
Like your best
Funeral/wedding suit,
A little lived in
But that doesn’t
Make it mean
Any less
As it’s taken
Out and shown
Sunshine and love
On those rare
Occasions,
How it
Fits just the
Right way,
As if no
Time had passed
At all.
Depression is
Making coffee at
1 AM on a weeknight,
chain smoking half
A pack in a sitting,
Talking shit on
The Internet,
Accidentally getting too
High on the cannabis
To regulate
The anxiety chaser
That always comes
With,
Talking to your
Wife at length
About anything but
Your feelings,
Hyperfixation hyperfixation
Hyperfixation,
Dwelling on your
Own personal doom,
Getting stuck,
Sitting in your
Pajamas for days
On end,
Forgetting to eat
Until you feel
Sick,
Overeating as a
Result,
Getting sick from
It,
TALKING SHIT ON
THE INTERNET,
making a thousand
Different plans,
Both creative and
Personal,
But only carrying
Out a handful,
Because ya know.
Depression is the
Veritable monkey on
your back,
The voice in
your head,
The devil on
Your shoulder,
The knife in
Your back,
The thorn in
Your side,
(A moz reference,
How original)
At times swinging
For the fences,
So beautiful and
Burning bright,
And later crash
And burn,
A flaming husk
Of your former
Grace,
How fittingly tragic
How utterly ironic,
That everything that
Fuels the art,
Also guarantees a
Widow maker at
50,
As you burn
The candle at
Both ends and
The middle too,
And that’s what
Fuels you to
Build while there
Is still breath in
You,
Because the deal
With depression
Is one way
Or the other
It gets you
In the end,
Because depression
Is also poor
Habits,
Addiction,
Bad diet,
And a heart which
Murmurs and a
Sleep schedule that
Would make a
Vampire wince,
So you’ll blaze
Like a dying star
In the northern
Sky,
Because depression is
Also knowing your
Way around a
Dramatic exit,
Stage left.
An Open Letter to Michael Stipe
You on a
Magazine cover
Wearing eyeliner
Meant more to
Me at thirteen
Years old than
Gold,
Secretly queer in
The south,
I wouldn’t come
Out until I
Was forty,
And queer artists
Always spoke
In a language
I could understand,
I’m forever questioning
Everything,
Both cosmic and
Personal,
Forever hedging
On the gender
Question.
Feeling safe in
Makeup
More myself with
Longer hair,
And I’ve never
Really ascribed to
A male point
Of view,
Nor a view of
Myself,
And hey,
I look good
In a dress.
Ted Jackins (they/them) is a poet and multidisciplinary artist from North Carolina. Their work seeks to explore the point of view of the world through the cracked lens of bipolar disorder. They are the author of several chapbooks and three collections the most recent of which is From a Curious Ear (Impspired Press).
