- By Ryan Oliveira
These Times (a triptych)

I.
These months,
rough.
These meds,
not right.
These thoughts,
hanging.
These insomnias,
incessant.
These mornings,
unable to,
unwilling,
you will get up,
you have to get up,
you can’t.
II.
Your therapist begs you:
Remember the time?

When you gave no fucks
About ghosts, gay men
Rejecting you in texted
Silences, sils vou plais
With you?
You, unpleased
With their tight-lipped kisses,
Their tight-fist caresses,
Their tight disappointments
With you?
You had no fucks
To give or receive then,
Despite their fellowships,
Their advisory positions,
Did you?
Remember then?
Young professionals of color. Couldn’t love me then.
Wouldn’t love me now.
III.
I promise myself today:
I will make it to work One Whole Week.
This I have promised,
Often in the mirror
Six Weeks and More.
Today, I am ready.
Dress shirt and jeans,
Repeating, repeating:
You can do this.
You can do this.
You can do this.
I take three steps
Out the door, into
Suddenly: a weight.
I breathe. Retreat.
Into the room, into
A cocoon of sheets.
Seven Weeks Now. We’ll make it Next Week,
I promise myself.
We have to.
We have to.
We have to.
