Louisa Schnaithmann

MAJOR DEPRESSION WITH POSSIBLE PSYCHOSIS, AGE I5

Dog-tired. The kind
that makes you want
to stop forever.

The kind that dulls
the knife of your brain,
the sick leeching in.

Or out. What did I
want to begin with?

Not to die. But not
to live, either.

Maybe it was this:
To have not existed.

At all. Not the finality,
but just never beginning.

An emptiness, without
the howl of thought.

My arm limp by the bedside,
an unturned page of a book
hanging by it.