I used to wonder
why it was worst on Sundays
until I remembered
that was the day I used to feed it
but no longer do.
Must be hungry.

I’ll spoil: it’s depression.
My therapist wants me to be more open about it. 
Or would,
If I actually went to therapy. 

No, I’m more of a DIYer.
Taking things apart,
putting them back together,
hopefully fixed.

It’s only natural to have a few extra screws left over, right?
Rattling around in there.

Content Warning

The poet decided this submission may have content that's not for everyone. If you'd like to see it anyway, please click the eyeball icon.