Ok so this is short and I know you guys are
gonna judge it, or short for a slam poem I guess. It’s not really that short. But I
don’t really care about the scores on this poem. For once, I’m going to ask you guys
to help me with a little bit of therapy, which I don’t do a lot in slam anymore.
So this is not going to be the best poem I have written, but I think it’s the most
important poem I’ve written for myself in the last year and a half, so thank you. Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries, took the bus home, carried both bags with
two good arms back to my studio apartment and cooked myself dinner. You and I may have
different definitions of a good day. This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs, only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks. I slept
like a rock. Flossed in the morning, locked my door, remembered to buy eggs. My mother
is proud of me. It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course. She doesn’t
combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale” with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered
to buy eggs,” but she is proud. See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles, how I would stay as silent as a thick fog
for weeks. She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days. My life was a gift I wanted to return. My head was a house of
leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs. Depression, is a good lover. So attentive;
has this innate way of making everything about you. And it is easy to forget that your bedroom
is not the world, that the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting. It is easier
to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created. Today, I slept in until 10, cleaned every
dish I own, fought with the bank, took care of paperwork. You and I might have different
definitions of adulthood. I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore, and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely
apologize for. And my mother is proud of me. I burned down a house of depression, I painted
over murals of greyscale, and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live,
but today, I want to live. I didn’t salivate over sharp knives or envy the boy who tossed
himself off the Brooklyn bridge. I just cleaned my bathroom, did the laundry, called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”