A Love Poem for Cary Grant (the name I gave my depression)

I tell my friend I think about suicide
every night, the thought a pillow mint
savored like a chocolaty secret, delicious.

It’s the first time I’ve been casual
about anything; she nods like an orange
rolling off the fruit display onto the floor,
trying to recover her cratered expectations.

She reaches for my hand to encourage, but I
can’t feel my fingers or the dimpled chin, don’t
feel much of anything in my Mayfair Hotel.
I’m beginning to begrudge all this chocolate
under my tongue.