Your reddening face transformed into a swirly Van Gogh painting in front of me,
The tears swelling in my eyes acted as the water put to the canvas,
My eyelashes the paintbrush,
Every blink causing the colours to blotch and streak before me.
The last kiss sounded like an entire glasshouse shattering,
There became an uproar in my head,
Chaos broke out.
You were still in front of me, although this time you didn’t treat my wounds,
My feet were cut from the glass but you didn’t tend to them,
My blood was spilling across the floor but you didn’t help me to mop it,
Not this time.
Not anymore,
You said you had run out of bandages to aid me now,
You said it had got too much,
It had got too much for you,
For you.
I am the one drowning in my own blood and it has got too much for you?
I cling to your arm, expecting you to haul me out of the depths as you usually do,
But your skin begins to dissolve,
You turn and leave,
I sink lower and lower into the cavernous darkness that I know all too well.
Slowly but surely the darkness slithers beneath my fingernails, slicing back my flesh,
The darkness makes a home within my body,
Claiming it as her own,
Driving home I see a possum that had been hit, I realise our hearts are beating in a similar slow, pulsating beat, we are both being left to die.

A poet’s heart does not just delicately nibble upon the petals, a poets heart dives head first into the stigma, marinating within the sticky but soothing pollen.
A poet’s heart becomes the beat of the waltz performed by the lovers at twilight.
Most hearts stumble into each other’s outstretched arms, “falling in love.”
The falling is oh so delicate, no scrapes or bruises, just neatly being let down onto a bed of cloud, white and wispy neck kisses, compliments, and dates at the local coffee shop floating in the surrounding air.
A poet’s heart does not fall nearly as delicately as theirs,
A poet’s heart dives deep into the darkest of waters,
Roughly,
Harshly,
With meaning.
A poet’s heart is submerged under the water for weeks at a time,
And when let out for air, it is wrenched dry, twisted and strangled until there is no more water to drip.
A poet’s heart is shown the true depths,
A poet’s heart explores the true depths.
A poet’s heart loves so ******* intensely that when all the metaphors are used up, it expires.
A poet’s heart grieves even more intensely than it loves.
For a poet’s heart known more synonyms for pain than that of most.
A poet’s heart became dented and stained with all the passion that had been spared.
A poet’s heart gets stuck in the pollen deep down within the cavernous stigma; it looks up and sees the other hearts dancing upon brightly coloured petals,
The poet places pen to paper, but no metaphor is strong enough to explain the shards of their heart scattered at their feet, bleeding thick honey across the floor.

Depression tends to have a manipulating and controlling manner that spits and hisses from behind her snarled teeth,
Depression swallows the light.
And in doing so, depression gulps down yellow, drowning the sun and all his mighty.
Depression chomps on green, bits off grass and shrubble stuck to the inner corner of her lip.
Depression chews pink, each candy floss cloud tickling her taste buds.
Depression chugs blue, the ferocious waves sloshing down her throat with ease.
Depression regurgitates darkness, there is no colour when depression grabs my hands, looming shadows engulf my vision,
Depression’s feet start to move and I realise we are dancing to the dull thud of my heartbeat,
I dance with depression all through the dark, but it isn’t just dark, it’s the kind of dark with no moon, no stars or streetlights, it’s the kind of dark that creeps up on you until you cannot even see your nose.
The darkness slithers under my fingernails and slices back my skin, slipping beneath my flesh, it wears my hand like a glove,
It wanders upwards and claims my face simply as a mask,
As it seeps down, down, down, my legs now become stilts.
I am no longer dancing with depression, depression is dancing me, I am her puppet.