It feels like rain
Splashed from a soft heart
The splendour of a simple word
Holds without touch

The postman boy
Has gotten weary of the stories told
Wrongly by dear Oblivia on the yards
Every morning.
The postman boy comes for
The warm-hearted letters of distance sons
But on his hands are letters of slander and
coalition he did not fathom.

Depression is like wearing a fur coat
in the middle of summer,
with nothing underneath.
It is heavy, and *****,
and probably smells bad,
and you are sweating under its weight,
but you can’t take it off
because you don’t want
people to see you naked.
And they always ask,
“Why don’t you just take it off?”
And they don’t understand that you are too bare,
too raw,
to go outside without it;
that underneath the pelts
of dead things on your back,
you are frail,
and they would ravage you without it.
And you want nothing more
than to take it off,
throw it out,
but it’s scary
to let the world see you
without its coverage.