Content Warning: depression, lightly implied suicidal ideation

My psychiatrist says it’s time
to look into ketamine to keep me alive
through the holidays. I’m not saying I’m going to do
anything. I’m not. It’s just that the void calls so clearly
without leaves on the trees. He says it’s preventative,
and I imagine a ladder held fast to an ice-cracked roof.
My fingertips grip the gutters, legs bicycling
against the siding. But I’m not going to do anything,
I say, holding my hands up
like freeze. Like whoa. Like wait.
It’s just that right now, I’m stop-motion me.
I’m time-lapse me. I swear,
I’m not going to do anything. At least,
I don’t think. It takes two hours to move
eyelash to cheek. And I’m not going to tell
my mother. About the ketamine. At least not now.
Maybe after the first IV. She worries. My psychiatrist
says to think about it. He doesn’t say ask your husband,
like the last one did, and I want to kiss his forehead.
Not like, weird. Just relieved. But right now,
I’m wet-sand me. Mashed-potato me. Mine-field me.
The hardest me to love. Think about it, he says. Just think about it.

Bri Gearhart Staton (she/her) is a South Dakota poet who lives with Post-Concussion Syndrome following a life-altering motor vehicle accident in 2023. A graduate of Augustana University’s psychology, theatre, and gender studies programs, Bri’s writing explores experiences that exist in the periphery. Her poetry has been published by Button Poetry, wildscape, Livina Press, and more. A mother of two, her objectively hilarious children are the joys of her heart.

Instagram: @bristaton.writes