It's been almost three months since I've written a poem.

In the depths of winter, all I really want to do is hibernate. And for some stupid reason, I haven't gotten my prescription filled. After six years of successful medication compliance, I guess I've gotten a little cocky. I'm too cheap/busy to find a doctor to write me another prescription while I wait for the package to arrive from the mail-order pharmacy.

All of which means I've noticed a subtle shift in my mood. I'm more irritable with the sardine-like conditions on the subway. I'm concentrating more on things that suck in my life than on things that are good.

I'm isolating from my peers.

I haven't been to a meeting on more than a week.

These are all classic signs of depression and codependency: failure to perform basic tasks relating to self-care.

And yet I look perfectly healthy.

For now.

Annalisa's aunt died of cancer last week—just a few years after her other aunt did.

Boston in January sucks.

I work too much.

Like that. These are the things that are going through my head today.