I managed one good thing today, 

between Depression whisper-screaming 
‘go back to bed‘ & 
Perimenopause making me sob  
over rescue-cat videos. I 
found a live little bug, stuck 
on some adhesive, nearly done-in & 
gave it to our kitchen-resident 
jumping spider. The smallest gesture 
in my mental storm; this tiny offering 
against an inertia, a molasses-morass 
that is sure: anything I make 
with my hands 
will be found 
lacking. Any 
scream, exiting 
my lungs? Vastly 
insufficient, for multiple 
reasons. 
 
I wish there was 
a better ending for this.