Depression isn't what you think.
It's not slicing wrists and crying.
Not for everyone.
Sometimes it's just a heavy blanket.
You get your work done.
Mostly, anyway.
But you don't leave your room.
You don't leave your bed.
You tell your boyfriend you're going to bed early, but you sit awake for hours.
You get a watermelon from the kitchen and eat it in bed with a spoon.
Lights off, juice dripping down your face.
Watermelon used to taste good.
Sleep used to be easy.

Hate is a coiling gust of air seeking it's way out
Apathy sags,
murky and cold
in complacent instinct.
While hate can be tofu to a child expecting sweets,
apathy is nothing but the silent flickering of a neon vacancy sign.

Hate is bottled
yet bursting.
Apathy  is free,
but sedentary.

Hate is muscular
it shouts and threatens
while the other beckons,
just to push you away.

One: lava fit into a mold.
Two: so hot it becomes cold.

Hate is the fire
and apathy the barren field of ash
from which no phoenix shall rise.

I heard her thoughts breathe.

said,

she needed something with Redwood patience to understand why her mind traveled with butterflies searching for Eden.

Said, she felt ants inside her dreams carrying away the dead.

wondered if there was no limits to how her heart could grow or communicate with anything.

I saw her quaking eyes search for a place to land back before the first words that God said.

She felt the masterpiece come alive at midnight it spoke beyond all languages, treaded outside of logic, flew outside of time, connected itself with everything alive and spoke to her with a simple grace.

Everything is already yours.
Your heart is the doorway home.

She took a piece of me when she left, left an ice pick for me to play with.

Her sensitive nature understood why roots dug down in a quest for warm solace.

My heart almost closed forever, I felt the final straw detour me to wasteland.

I ran emerald frontiers in her eyes,
butterflies landing on my hands
their wings stained my eyelids
I can't go to sleep without flying through her.

my heart headed to the outskirts of Eden
imagining how she is
Loving her from behind bars
Her butterflies never seeking
my garden.

It almost wilted.

Windy wrath almost destroyed it all.

I had to search the silence
Try to understand myself through a tortured past, I had to tame your tyrant that grew inside my head.

I had to bear the weight of impatient voices that I could not repeat to anybody here
but the dead already know it,
Ones that died by their own hand.

I heard her thoughts breathe

said,

our roots go past the stars
hidden in our beating blood
is the whisper and light of God.

To you
     who are afraid of heights
   Not because you're afraid to fall
   But because you're afraid
     you will not know how to get down
   Because sometimes you need to
     when you've been way way up
               You can keep chasing the stars
               But you will need to feel the ground
               Don't lose someone who makes you feel so.

So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.
It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lightened up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping *******
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foilage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.

Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver.
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brillance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.

As a man, I won't repeat
the tings she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The sowrds of the liles
battled with the air.

I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she as a maiden
when I took her to the river.

there comes a point in time
when you have nothing
to give away
to the searching hands

wandering, dancing over
veins and joints
that are barely there.
they will ask for parts

forgotten, areas destroyed
and you will hand them
the rubble only for it
to be swept away.

there comes a point in time
your soul will hunger and thirst
for things you can
no longer feed it.

it will cry out for you
like a newborn baby
but you can only pass it
rice grains of promises

that fate will be kinder
to your already broken body.
you put your soul to rest,
and pray for sweeter dreams

you will lose your spine
and find vertebrae in letters,
bottled up and sailed off,
sent to long lost lovers.

your palms are empty,
reaching for bodies
sleeping in beds
that are no longer yours.

cold gasps settled into
the fine lines of song lyrics,
impossible to return
back down to your lungs.

you will have given
everything you have
to the universe, letting them go
into the expanse of space.

all you have left for yourself
is space rock and asteroid dust,
but for some reason,
you never ask for more.

you leave it up to hope
that gravity will pull
your fragments
all the way back to you.