“It’s so sad,
what's happening
over there.”

They say,

As they
double tap the
romanticized,
normalized,
propagated,
famine-riddled,
war-tor­n,
image of what
used to be a
nation.

“I can't do anything,
though.”

They say,

As they lounge,
in their ancient
blackbird-gilded
thrones
Coated in
percolated gold

Resting, in a castle
carved from
native marble

“This sadness makes
me tired.”

They say,

As they cast their
cerulean globes
to the ceiling
that hosts crystal
chandeliers
dripping with
privilege
Shedding light
On material exuberance
In rooms painted
in mirrors
for the pleasure
of viewing their
adorned ignorance

“Oh, that's pretty.”

They say,

As they gaze
through pellucid
barriers
at the
romanticized,
normalized,
propagated,
famine-riddled,
war-tor­n,
image of what
used to be a
nation.

“The sunset.”

They say.

when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.

And it's moments like these
where you stop moving and the world
spins
And your body feels so heavy
like rocks, like mountains,
like the whole world is pushing down
like you're drowning
in gravity
like none of the rules of physics apply
And it's like quicksand
there's no bottom to the pit
you've dug
and no ladder, no stairway, no handholds
you're falling
And you feel like you can barely breathe
barely blink
barely live
Depression isn't something cool
not a fad
or a trend
it's a sentence
a death sentence
and I don't know whether or not I can lift it
because somedays,
like today,
it's just too heavy

One day
One day I'll write you
a poem

I'll write about your
simper
The consuming curves of your mouth
The twitches (sudden, sharp)
in your muscles
(sensations)

I'll tell the world
[empty rooms that read (mock)
my fractured whispers]
of how your chapped translators,
snuck past the
raw fissures of mine

I'll lyricise
About (ghostly) words that
were mouthed
across my skin

In (dazed) familiarity
I will (won't) recall
nights like this one
(none)
Nights where I felt.

I felt.

I'll write about
a love I've never
experienced
with a faceless
person I've never met,
only Alive
in the evolving
depths of (my) dreams
Through dwam
and deep sleep

One day
I'll carve into saturated sand
(under waves that will
greet me with the same fondness I have when I recall you)
all these
Words
that can never exist
(how can they if
you don't either?)