It should not have surprised me when I woke,
laying in the hospital bed, white sheets,
bandages, heart monitor, IV yoke,
nurses, and three empty visitor seats.
Psychiatrists asked questions, prescribed pills,
forced meetings, demanded group therapy,
attempted to find the root of my ills,
declared depression, and then set me free.
It did not surprise me when I came home,
to find it still broken, empty, and bare.
Laundry still piled in a haphazard dome,
and proof of collapse pervaded the air.
I failed in life and also failed in death.
There must be a reason I still have breath.