I still remember her house vividly;
It was always messy, clothes and toys littering the floor
While the cats wandered by whenever they pleased.
There was a beautiful doll's house that she cherished so much
That she let me play with as she spoke to my parents in the kitchen.
Guitar-playing was a passion of hers,
And I'd sit, transfixed, as she sang along to the songs she played,
With a wide grin on her face, that was her home.
Now it's not.
It's never going to be her home again,
Because now she lives in a home for old people with health problems.
She had a breakdown after the death of her sister
And no-one could give her the help she needed, so she went away
Where her loved ones thought she'd be well looked after.
There the staff kept her locked in her room,
Mind atrophied from the solitude they forced upon her
Except for the times they shoved antipsychotics that she didn't need down her throat.
No-one visited her. How could they?
Her son insisted she stay in her home city
Even though everyone in the family lived in another.
My mother couldn't see her own sister, busy being a carer for me and her mother,
Not for years, and by then it was too late.
She'd fallen over, broken her hip and banged her head,
And she suffered through the agony for three days,
Until my mother found out and demanded they take her to hospital.
Then the home was shut down and she lives somewhere else,
Only five minutes away where she's visited often.
But it's all too late.
Once lively, outgoing, big booming laughter that filled the hallways,
She's now timid and frail, she's aged twenty years in only six.
There are no passions, only forced smiles
Dotted here and there, on rare occasions, with genuine glimpses of happiness.
And I'd love to tell you that I'm writing this for her,
Because I love and miss her and want to document the downfall of a woman so wonderful.
But I'd be a liar, because this write is as much about me as it is about her.
Every time I look at her, I can't help but wonder how long I have left
Until I'm in the same place as her.

Depression isn't a black cloud.
That cliche implies that eventually there'll be a torrential downpour,
And then the cloud will fade away and allow
The sun to shine through, ending that terrible storm.
Depression is a starless night.
An expanse of black where even the stars have abandoned you,
Long since dead, and you try to make sense of the loneliness
In a world where people have turned into zombies.
Thoughtless, repetitive phrases become their instincts.
"Think positively," is the mantra of the dead to the dying.
As though statements turn into directions when the sun goes down,
Like signposts leading us to a brightly-lit land.
But the sky doesn't respond to artificial lights,
And nothing but time can force the sun to return.
Their second statement, under the facade of help,
Is to remind us that day will always follow night,
And no matter how starless and eternal the darkness feels,
The sun will eventually break through the horizon, waving pinks and oranges.
Sadly, not all lifespans are created equal,
And for the many colourful transitions people have seen in the sky,
There are plenty who never see more than black.
Some souls are born at dusk and are dead by pre-dawn,
Never having lived through anything but darkness.
And to the zombies, accepting that fact is the hardest.

Bed sheets become red sheets,
Pillows becomes tear catchers,
No dream catchers here because only nightmares live,
Feasting on wakeful exhaustion.
Deflated bouncy castles for intestines,
White blood cells searching frantically in enclosed darkness.
Enemy invaders seeping into blood, bone and muscle
As the warriors remain trapped in sticky villi.
Drug dependency is a permanent solution
And overdosing is a consistent caregiver for sleep.
Nausea is a rebellious, suicidal last stand
To go down with the invaders as they're taken out.
A seven year war fought inside your body
With no visible battle lines drawn is lonely.
My skin is pockmarked, riddled with the craters of bombs
Fired from all sides with no mercy for the land.
Sometimes I can't help but wonder what'll **** me first:
The invaders or my body's own troops.