i am in a complicated relationship with my depression
she is as cold as houses with old doorways and broken windows.
our love is not a fairytale.
It is a ghost story.

i never can quite get close enough to her, but I can't let go
without her, I am that same house but with no furniture
without her;  I am a garden with nothing to harvest:
an indigo night sky with no stars.

she doesn't let me leave,
other people are loaded guns to her,
and she can't let their gaze meet mine
they are gypsies,
and she's afraid I'm going to see the future in their irises.
a future where I know love as more than just the concrete used to fill the sidewalk that is my broken heart.

our relationship is a burning house,
it is empty wine bottles,
and sleepless nights.
she is drought in summer,
and forest fires in autumn.
nothing can grow in the soil of my soul anymore.
there is nothing beautiful left.