is actually, ironically, the year of quiet.
very little gets done,
it is mostly still, you in the corner –
a crumpled thing.
a broken clock nobody thinks to fix.
dishes in the sink.
left-overs hiding in the darkest parts
of the fridge. the recesses that everyone
seems to forget.

the year of depression – I mean, quiet,
manic keeps trying to pick the lock
when no one is looking.
isn’t very successful though.
eventually gives up,
manic does not have patience
the way depression – I mean, quiet
does.

the quiet closes up the windows with plywood
and hums, “baby, it’s safer this way.”
and you listen, this quiet is so demanding,
how it breathes behind you,
presses a lone finger against your windpipe,
reminds you it exists
without even having to say
a fucking thing.