Content warning: subtle reference to suicide
Eclipsed rain,
Gather your language into the forest.
Your lamp languishes into minutes.
How brief; our laughter fritters away.
Outside, a childlike light dims.
We dim until our teeth bite
Into the soft tissue of our lives
& like knives, we blunt ourselves.
Like knives, we grow dull
With misuse.
We are no longer used to ourselves.
Our wrists are frail gods
Wrapped in plaster & clot.
We are building new bodies
To carry us home.
Image: Virginia Wolf
Sometimes depression feels like a distant echo, a stranger who came while you slept inside your soul and left your body open but has left now. But then it leaves an ache that sometimes grows a mouth filled with teeth and you begin to feel again that emptiness, that weary sadness, that long drawn sigh.
It comes sudden as a bad news, climbs into you like an old habit and you begin to make promises to it that feels like you're setting yourself free from some type of freedom. You begin to believe that maybe, you like the chains, that the peace and joy of the past few days or weeks or month is not tenable and this, this depth less unspooling of yourself is what is best.
Sometimes, it takes everything out of you but you're used to the abuse by now. You can take it. You watch the plant wilt through the mirror. You do not even recognize yourself now. Maybe a sun will shine through the window blinds. Maybe a drop of dew will coalesce across its drab veins. Maybe sometimes will grow less frequent and you will survive this time, one last time, one more time.
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