She rises from bed and stares
out the window. Another day.
No new horizons. Why do
people talk such crap, she muses,
senses the hangover bite in.
He said it was just a *** thing,
no strings, see what a new
tomorrow brings. Her mother
had this thing about what the
neighbours said, how things
looked from another’s perspective.
There is a damp patch where
her hand has touched, blood,
bright red. She sees him or rather
his outline in the dark of the night
before. All ten minutes of excitement,
a two-bit joy. Her hand runs over
the patch, feels the stickiness.
Depression digs in its feet, plunges
in its dark claws, rips through her
sense of being, sees the outside
city, no real care, no pity, just what
is she seeing? Shadows and outlines,
people, cars, streets, sun, clouds,
business out there. She wants her
mother back, the loss of all those
years ago, lingering in the back of
her mind and center of her heart.
Depression and the black dog tear
All things and love and life apart.