RAT A-TAT-TAT CRAP.

A GIRL AND HER DEPRESSION AND TIME AND DAYS AND HOURS.

There is always
that backward looking,
then forward looking,

then inward looking,
seeking a way out,
wanting out,

not knowing why,
feeling brave one minute,
then awfully too shy.

You see it in fragments,
life, bits broken strung
together by odd thoughts,

sensations that sicken,
him there, not there,
promises made,

and then unmade.
You have the dark dog days,
the seeing no light

or reason for further
being days, those why
the f**k did I wake up days

or hours, or minute
by minute unfolding times,
where everything sickens

like foul crimes.
The wanting to die days,
wanting to have no more

of this crap days,
the I want to sleep
forever mornings

with hand over mouth  
big deep yawnings.
You wish he'd come,

then you're glad he hasn't,
or sometimes both at once
wanting and not wanting

or not knowing
what the f**k you want,
just that, that, that,
rat a-tat-tat crap.