I wanted to trust, but I have been dishonest and now I take the good and turn it bad. My friend is compassionate, checks in regularly, makes sure I am well in spirit. Perhaps that is what breeds love, but I have already destroyed love in our past. I hoped I could be larger than I am so that I would be worthy of feelings they send, but to this day I guard secrets, and tell truths disguised in jokes that are shrugged off in innocent beliefs of my stability.
I wonder if you spoke to the stars in the black sky, would they listen? If I were to confess all of the things welling up inside my chest if that would make a difference—maybe I’d tell them all of my secrets. The night sky blankets your eyes and your ears, yet you still see the flickering candles way up high and can hone into the nocturnal birdsong. Crickets are like a drum line, playing their repetitive beats only to be disturbed by the loud sounds of music of people who celebrate everything that there is to celebrate in life. I say I’m as black as my shirt, as black as the outside corridors and the broken concrete fences waiting repair. I am like my house, an unfinished product, a byproduct of cortisol and dopamine. Perhaps this is what melancholy feels like. The body still tunes in to pleasure, but the brain doesn’t ignite the same ways it used to. So this brings me back to the night sky… Why tell it anything if it’s too far away to hear me? Maybe it’s better to gently place this weight on the soaked grass and perhaps it will provide my resuscitating roses with adequate nutrition.
Disclaimer: This one gets a little dark.
So jaded and hated as you break down into all the junk of life creating excess trash and depression with a road paved with bad intentions. Nothing you do is enough for anything and that’s because you’re less than a person in society’s eyes. The worst is what belongs to you for that is all that you are given in this putrid and debasing world. Who knew you could become so dark in a matter of seconds, but hey, no one is enough anymore so it makes sense that you decompose into fragments of dust littering the walls, surfaces, and polluting the water. You are now less than human in a world that bred you for consumption. As for me, I hope they enjoy their meal, for the secret ingredient is to DIE for.
From where enters your strength, your will to live? It reminded of how battered and bruised I have been. A memory of black clouds coming down onto me haunts my head and I had hoped that I had healed that trauma, but they asked me: where does that strength come from? There were no good answers to that question. Perhaps it was this ancestral DNA or my mother’s mitochondrial DNA that let me live though the struggle. How ungrateful I must seem, to have that survivor’s will and to hate the act of having to survive. She must look at me with disdain or maybe with pity at knowing that her scars are inscribed into my genetic makeup too.
Why have you stayed? I am asked this question, not in so many words. Sadly, no responses escape because I hold the gates tightly shut for fear of being seen as the fool. Who could have thought that this would be the woman striving to bear the fruits of my labor—so hindered by a simple soul?
I sit next to the ocean that is reclaiming the land and the rain starts to sweep in between the mangroves and dead fish. Soaked pages take in the tears of the sky as if they’ve been parched for quite some time. The ocean and sky have reclaimed their original place on land and floating aimlessly– a red jacket. The dyed red leather is engorged with salt-water while crabs laugh at that foolish girl in tatters.
Take a deep breath and lay your head on the pillow. You’re tired from migraines and stressful conversation, yet you’re still hard on yourself. Perhaps you didn’t do enough, perhaps you just could never be enough.
Maybe there is something in this world that is screaming at you about your lack of worth. It’s not appeasing your pain and now you want to crawl under your sheets. Sleep the day away to keep this depression in your separate existence. The one you choose as real is the dream portion of your nightmare until the nightmare thrashes you awake.
How do you juggle these two worlds–Anxiety and Depression? Where are it’s lifelines rooted in?
One is a tiny, yet deep pond of movement and the other is a shallow ocean of quicksand. Somehow you’re still afloat, but you’re tiring fast. These realities of yours are being created by those that tell you that you need to hide in your parallel existences. They actually fear your brilliance and potential. They’re sending out the K-9s so that you stay in one place, either in Anxiety or in Depression and under your covers all the while. Don’t move or they’ll rip your heart out.