I finally convinced Depression to

go to couple’s counseling.

He argued that we did not need a shrink;

says I don’t need someone telling me

how to love and what to think.

He already does that for me.

The therapist asked us if we spend a lot of time together.

I told her how he stays up talking to me till 2am

and those days he lingers in my bed with his

hands curled around my waist.

We don’t go on dinner dates,

but we like ordering pizza, and more, and more.

We build walls around us with empty pizza boxes.

We’re spontaneous too.

Just last weekend we got drunk

and dyed our hair different colors.

I keep telling him that I’m trying to find who I am.

He tells me not to worry about it because I am him

and we’re a team and

there’s no such thing as “just me”.

I promise it's not one of those relationships.

He’s not overprotective; he’s just caring.

He calls me beautiful too;

says the shade of sadness looks so good on my lips

because it creates a silhouette of a smile.

She asked me about our sex life.

His kisses taste like anxiety attacks and blades

and his hands hold me like razors,

but he said that love was supposed to like that;

taught me that this was what making love was like:

empty people making each other feel less vacant.

He always says he loves me though,

but perhaps he didn’t truly mean it.

Maybe he is just a reminder of

the people I used to love.

She sighs, clicks her pen, and spits the words,

“Maybe he doesn’t want you to leave.”

I come to a record-scratch stop

as the idea echoes in my skull.

To leave, to leave, to leave.

My father left me.

I remember he always said he would

scream at me out of love.

I think him and Depression

share the same tongue.

She shuts her notebook and speaks,

“I think we’ve found the root of the problem.”