depression is a heavy pair of pants that stand on their own in front of me beside my bed on a rainy day on a sunny day to be honest, i never looked out the window OR i sat here like a bed of flowers in the shade by cold grey memories and thoughts of nominal motivation writing the story of my life in my head with a limp hand a pencil not a pen worn out eraser skipping the best parts hurting myself on the worst parts a suicide note and even that page is blank... every casual thought stalked by a scarier, more critical comment (thinking) (in) (parentheses) (?) (..) (...) (..) if this is where i fell, how did i ever get back up?
inspired by audre lorde
why do we write things that we know we will forget why give our memories a place to die why these scars things i cannot change stripes on my skin (on the page pens scrape sharp as teeth) in a forest where i fiercely dwell the tiger's kill moans and swells always a sound sleep in a silent stalked grass atop a green blushing hill belly full and howling moon trees hold a solemn silence pieces of my ear tossed into the mouths of wolves scent lost in the wind under the shroud of night a naked body wrestles in the sheets a distant trail of ants converge over the hill a claw uncurls into the sky lamps flicker:eyes open
i think i can waters of the soul in this forest i am not alone pond where i became whole cloud of swirls tongue of pearls myself within myself.