Anhedonia has never seemed to me like a state of being. Not something that comes from my own mood swings. Maybe it's the name, but I've always personified it as a girl in black. Someone who knocks at my door and comes in without asking. Always there with me. In the corner of my eye. (I never see her eyes. She only looks at the floor.) She doesn't speak. But everyone else is scared of her anyway. They come to visit but they never stay long.

Getting Better

Sometime last winter. Let's call it December.
Your collarbone casts a shadow.
You press your fingers under the point of
your jaw. Your carotid artery leaps out at them.
Eagerly. Your body is lines on a grid.
Impatience drove you here. But now
you are patient. Infinitely so.
In the mirror, your eyes are submerged.
Your mouth is stone. You wait
for the skin to split. You keep your secrets
above your heart. They become tools.
They cut the lines to the anchors that bind you down.

That was months ago. You're just now waking up.
Fingers lie in the shadow of your collarbone.
Your secrets can't hide. Vanish now.
You press your hand to her back
and hold her against you. You wait
for the skin to stick. Her head lies heavy
over your heart. Weights you.
Keeps your feet on the ground.