If my depression were human, like myself, it would possess no gender.
Astonishingly impatient, it would easily upset;
Every little detail, from meal times to dress,
Could trigger a hate-storm of words and fists
Plummeting down upon my body, its own little punching bag.

If my depression were human,
it would adhere to my side without consent
Mirroring that bi-polar, abusive “relative”
A step-mother with clenching claws much too close to my neck one minute
Then handing over claims of caring and loving me the next.
I am forced to face hell whenever it visits,
But if gone for too long,
I begin to miss its presence.

And if my depression were human, it would live restlessly.
Through exercise it could relax a while, but
with its unruly schedule, the time may never surface.
It tries to sleep often and I try my best to assist
--tea and music to calm the mind--
but most often insomnia
leaves it beside me for hours, burning on and on
this flame eating at my insides:
A voice I cannot ignore.
The lack of sleep driving its nerves and emotions
On even less stable ground.
Sleeping pills no longer work to calm its overactive mind
And this throat-burning ***** works for only a few hours
Sitting in the shadows with only the bottle to numb the pain
For us both.

If my depression were human,
it would force its way between myself and others,
destroying every potential relationship,
friendship and otherwise,
before even a chance at an emotional connection arises;
driving even the most persistent ones to give up in exhaustion.
I would live alone with it
And it with me
It would tell me that it loves me, but turn
And stab at my wrists
At my arms
At my legs
Shedding blood and claiming that
That would prove my devotion.

If my depression were human,
life would not be life,
I would not be me.
Eventually I could no longer hide behind a fabricated smile:
to pretend would pain my damaged mind past its tolerance
and my body would begin to lose hope as well.
I could try to run away,
with substances or therapy,
but the effects only fade and leave me alone
with it
Once more.

And unfortunately,
Depression is human.
A parasitic one
Living in and draining the mind of its host.
Slowly killing every emotion,
Until even pain loses its effects.
Dominating relationship after relationship.
Birthing 350 million loners.
Ending 350 million lives,
Whether literally, or emotionally.

Those who survive and learn to file it away
may never know themselves again.
Forced to worship pills that eat their true selves,
all for this demonic being
that leaves them numb,
cold,
and empty.


*As I stand now, face to face
with my own demons,
no longer lurking in the shadows,
I realize
I have lost the war,
as my throat counts the blue bullets
leading to my sanity.

and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ******* with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it