dear depression,
 i’m going to be honest:
 this is an ode i’ve written before because
 i have the habit of giving life to
 my monsters by giving up my own.
  this is an ode i’ve written before
 and the only difference between
 before and after is that
 before sounded off like a suicide note and that
before tried building a coffin
 between the covers of a book and that
 before’s newly typed poems rang like gunshots,
 like the snap of a rope,
 like a body hitting the ground.
 before is in the past, though.
 this is an ode for after.
 depression, you still have a string around one of my teeth
but no longer a noose next to my neck.
 i’ve been learning how to unknot the
tangles you’ve left in my life - my lungs - my head -
even my hair from when i couldn’t leave my bed.
the half-life existence i’ve been living has finally
decayed and i’m no longer concentrated on you.
 depression, after hears rain in the computer keys,
 the buzzing of bees in the letters,
 and the sound of future poems.