I understand each and every word of your
bad idea that says I should shut my mouth,
but the only dark alley I see is the hall I am
traveling through to get to the garage.
In search of a fix I hope to find in the
refrigerator. Walking through the door,
I freeze as a voice streaming through the radio
mounted to the wall suddenly asks me:::
When did you stop being happy?
When did your anxiety and nervousness
and depression start to get the best of you?
When did you stop being able to
"snap out of it"? You deserve to be happy.
My hand is clutching the door handle
as I just stare, tearing up a bit.
It tells me to call. Now. I don't call.
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