This is an edited version of the poem that first appeared in Fountain of Youth (Vine Leaves Press, 2016), p: 72.
There is no better after your being breaks.
Your selves disintegrate
into st-st-stutters
or run on sentences.
They are there
unrecognizable,
crawling under barren surfaces,
cramming into daily phrases.
Stop asking me about my depression.
You paid for my ticket.
Remember your cocky wager to break
my confidence by the end of the year?
What did you think was going to happen?
Get better.
Get better.
Are you better?
There is no better. There is
only an is.