Depression is not
a dragon--it
cannot be killed
with a single
thrust of an
antidepressant
or a hug.
It is not
a void or a
wave--depression
is like a
melancholy
song only your
ears know--it
sets a mood
for everything.
It is not
a weasel
that grabs
hold of you
from behind.
It is more
like lead
poured down
into each
ventricle of
your soul--
the flesh
is heavy.
Depression is
an allergic
reaction to
self-confidence
and beauty.
Like a rash,
it is hidden
under your
clothes so
no one sees.
It is the
chill in your
fingers that
no blanket
can warm.
Oedipus had
it, the disciples
caught it too--
the germs are
in the sin and
evil we see
each day
(that lives
in us).
Depression is
not a deficiency--
you cannot plug
me into the
wall and charge
me up with
smiles and love.
It is more
like a mirror
at the fair, so
shaky and
convoluted, but
it is in
your eyes.