Sometimes I want to write, but the only words I have are “I’m depressed.” And nobody wants to read a poem that just says “I’m depressed” over and over again. I used to be able to write good things when I was depressed, but apparently my creativity well only ran so deep, and now we are in the midst of a creativity drought, and, if anything, my depression is only amplified by the fact that I can’t even use it to inspire blithe creativity anymore.

I know no one expects anything from me, so I don’t have to apologize to anyone.

But, on some level, I pretend like I have an interested audience so that I don’t have to acknowledge that I’m the only one who expects something from me.

Im no Sylvia Plath.

So, I’m sorry my loving, ghost audience for my inability to move your hearts by conjuring brilliant words.

(But mostly, I’m sorry for myself.)