These days
I spend
a lot of time
not exactly wanting
to die
but just
to be dead, maybe,
to rest.
There's a difference,
or at least
there used to be.
I am regret.
I am self-defeat.
I think about
thinking
more than I
used to.

I guess Depression will do that to you.

My body hurts.
Aches, actually.
It's constant.
In my head,
dull static
But louder.
Thumping rhymically.
Like, really ******* loud
all the
******* time.
Things are heavy.
My arms
weigh far too much.
My lungs
are concrete.
They pump
stale air.
My spine is sawdust.
My spit is mud.
Didn't my eyes
used to be
more blue?

Depression is an ******* who will do this to you.

My words
used to be sharp
and loud.
Electric and
strange, they
tumbled out
of me,
like machine
gun fire,
a swarm
of bees.
Now I have to
pry them
loose, carefully
like teeth.

Depression is mechanical and it's systematically destroying me.

I want to rest.

I want to be Earth-
my skin, loose soil,
yellow button dandelions
pushing through
the dirt in my chest,
as puddles fill my outstretched hands
while my hair twists into the roots of trees;
and the wind picks up
to scatters pieces of me
side by side
the dandelion seeds.

You read between
the horizontal lines
And ended up trapped
inside my sweater.

This city feels like spinning wheels
carving deeper into the earth
with each revolution.
I'm up to my knees,
now.
I inhale the dust
until my lungs are gravel
and my teeth and tongue
have no memories
except dirt
and the ache
of chewing your name.
I used to like
to hear the wind
and the rain
delivering my morse code messages,
spelling everything out.
I used to trust
the things the storms would say.
When did I develop a fear of gray?

We lost ourselves
for a moment there,
and found eachother
in the aftermath
with hands clasped,
laying shoulder to shoulder.

It seems fitting you said,
that we fell in love
watching the sun rise together,
and now we only separately
watch suns set.