Since she left,

I’ve been carrying around a weight. 

Which is weird;

she took a lot with her. 

So much felt like it was missing,

and I’ve never had nothingness weigh

this much.

Since she left,

I’ve been sad.

My psychiatrist asked me,

if I felt hopeless.

Which is weird,

because I know that I do—

But I know that’s not what she’s asking.

She wants to know if I’m depressed.

But part of asking if I’m depressed,

Is asking if I’ve lost interest in things

I used to enjoy.

And I have.

But only because so much,

was wrapped up in her

And now I just feel like I’m here

but not here,

Force feeding myself fandoms and video games and old music we used to like reading all 

these books and seeing all these movies— 

Not because I like them now, 

but because I liked them before her.

I know I’ll like them again.

And, yes, I’m hopeless, 

But I’m not depressed.

My medication is fine.

I’m sleeping just fine.

My therapy is fine.

I’m just stuck. 

Trying to learn a new normal.

But I went a week.

Nothing felt a little lighter, 

I’m still sad, yes, 

but it’s different now.