some people wear their depression like a cellophane coat–
thin, transparent.
it’s see-through,
thinning enamel on a full set of teeth, one bite and it hurts;
an ultra-expressive face donning an unimpressive mask;
leathery skin, a telltale sign that alerts those with magnifying glasses for eyes that the sickly body is days away from clattering on the floor
[a collection of skeletal scraps].

some people don’t,

some wear smiles and get up and out of the covers,
approach the day with cautious optimism–
those people are special,
masters of their craft:
their legs, like their hands, cardboard stiff, left outside to dry in the sun;
their skin, the opposite of slick, un-sweaty, and un-chafed, unmarred by the body’s reactions to the subconscious.
their hearts, strong, impervious to the elements — to the words said with such tenderness one fails to hear them pierce the armor of the flesh, of the spirit.

these people?
they’re alchemy,
with the magical ability to conjure up
falsity and accept it as fact.