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It almost feels like betrayal;

polite sympathy from the family tree.

 

Questions like

“Haven’t you had enough therapy?”

 

As if it’s as simple as

getting enough sleep.

 

And a sibling’s

unyielding belief

that a republican philosophy

and a pair of steel-toe boots

will save my lazy, secular soul.

 

So often, I feel backed

into a corner and

put on trial for a

blasphemous crime,

for speaking in a two-tongued

language called

Depression.

 

I am a flammable plague

inside a porcelain vase,

but I’m trying,

 

I’ve been trying so hard

to keep it from spilling out

and burning the room.

 

 

 

Jada Yee‘s work has appeared in Poydras Review, The Paragon Journal, The Birds We Piled Loosely, The Sacred Cow Magazine, and others.

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