First it was my throat. My lymph nodes were swollen. I knew it was a blocked throat chakra.
The words would not come out right,
The words would not come out at all.
It showed itself on your hands
And it’s the first time you ever felt Death pat you on the hands. Many things you wouldn’t understand.
Like why every night you would wake up at 3 am in a rapid temper. This isn’t a pen it’s your fist.
My hands kept turning purple, bruised. This is the first time that I’ve wrote it down, and it’s silent. Then it was my eyes
My eyelids swollen, and if this isn’t a sign then I don’t know what is. The mute is going blind.
there is a pounding headache, this isn’t a poem, this is just some angst confession about depression and how if I don’t write, I’ll die.