every time i hit rock bottom
someone digs a little deeper
now these walls are too steep
i’ve not enough grip
slip and slip and slip and slip
pickup and pack up perpetual bags
start the process over
with new characters
and settings
and expectations
but the same feelings
and probably meanings
and letdowns and stained cheeks
should i cut or burn this time?
there’s one thing i control
another:
where shall i take these scissors
to my forehead or my closest ties?
that are holding me together
but all too tight
well
is it weak to wither away
at the hands of something
i can’t see?
my demons are only metaphors
just like those bags and ties
i used to think depression pains
were the same
but they’re as literal as can be
not just tears but pangs
broken hearts bleed faster
and tarnished lungs take shallow breaths
the past took a pocketknife to my skin
carved and scooped me out
and turned my body to a little tease
that won’t give me the real mortal thing