My body pushed you down
as our weight carried
by gravity like a leaf
falling and swinging,
gentle, slowly, we dance
with my existence all over
you like a balloon filled
with air, and you pulled me,
into you, down your throat,
until little doubts, our escape,
choked you, as you removed
the sheets of innocence
around your lace, from your arms,
down to your pants
opened the zipper, you’ve let me
in, into you, deeper, then out,
same pattern, same routine,
growing music, little moans
like birds humming at night
with coldness covering warmth,
bodies burning, igniting time,
we held hands, jerking, jumbling,
our fingers played, lips stir,
no more butterflies in stomach,
but stones swallowed settling,
and there was you, and I,
dreams we have created,
evaporating with sweat,
oozing with fluids, swelling,
spilling all over the bed
like tiny dews from cold glasses,
we were both cold, like ice,
but we melt, touch by touch,
over and over again.

Depression,
some said that it is a problem with the mind
but for some, it is just merely a term for sadness
that taken for granted, it just became a norm,
that should have never been, because
it is more than a word spoken at midnight,
a label for the shattered concretes left inside,
not a song for the dead waiting for sunrise,
it is not even written at the back of drugs,
or *** or loneliness. It is not an alarm clock
to hear first thing in the morning because
all you ever wanted is to finish the day.
It is not even written as disclaimers
on boxes of blades, or pills,
or wishes of being gone. It is nowhere
to be found in maps for people
wishing of a home from the coldness.

Imagine, voices owning yourself
as you hear mutterings at unholy hours,
and a war inside of yourself as if
you were taught how to win a war.
Your fingers tremble like twigs almost broken
by the wind passing through.
Still, you wanted to be drifted away,
somewhere far, where you can be free,
from the whirlpool stirring inside of you.

It is not just an excuse for someone to
lock himself inside the bathroom,
and think of ways of killing himself.
It is not spoken by the sound of electric fan
buzzing to break the silence of absence.
It is not a seesaw at a park because
no one would push, and there is no force
to pull you back, and gravity
does not always keep you in-tucked.

Depression is trying to loosely tie
the laces of your shoes - anytime
you would lose at one end or another.
It is pulling rubber band, with
elasticity pulling you that you do
not know how to stand in between
because you would always fall
at one side.

And you tell it to people
not because you want them
to tell you that you are okay.

My teacher in anatomy forgot to tell me
that my body is too small to contain
all the crumbled dreams and promises,
the bits of a failing heart, the torn
maps of places once called home,
and that my bones are too fragile
to carry the weight of depression,
and that my skin is too thin
to try to hide the noise inside
every time I break into pieces,
and that my lungs are too weak
to breathe too much air
so that I will not get drowned.

There should be no sides
because neither sides
are good nor bad,
they both have something
to fight for, to defend,
and neither is backing up
because no one wants to be
tagged as a loser, a dirt
on the other side’s soles,
a miserable dog begging
for a master. No. No one.
Everyone started finding
their sides, and hating
the other. A coin has two
sides, and you either choose
one. But a coin is a circle,
why can’t everyone see that,
that it is a circle, with no sides,
but infinite loops, curves,
that no one wins, and no one
loses. Where there were
no teams nor something
to side with because
everyone is connected,
with no middle to divide
the left from the right.
A circle, that without a half,
it would never be perfect,
but will just be a fragment
so people won’t always
have to extinguish the other
side to have another always
facing up, and the other down.
It should have been a circle,
with either is up or down,
it would always find for its half,
no barren lands, no hand cuffs,
no blood and gun shots,
no bombs, no children lost
and parents dead. No left
and right, but a circle
longing for its continuity,
its infinity that everyone
is connected, essential,
in the loops of life.
No one wins, No one loses.
Everyone is equal.

You would mumble that I don’t
get to appreciate all your efforts,
little or big, because I tend to just
keep myself silent, even when happy,
and keep them for myself, like a thief
hiding gold in his secret treasure chest,
no words, no thoughts for traces
that anyone can backtrack to, and forth,
but believe me, little honey, everything
you have for me is kept inside my bones,
under my skin, within the extra layers
of fats, in every fragments of myself
that I have offered to you. You have your
name etched in every single *****
sliding through the intestines
that would get upset when you kiss me,
and the taste of your surprises lingering
under my tongue, within the gums,
hardening the teeth, like enamels.
Pictures of you, of your existence,
bygone memories, of nostalgia
all carefully placed inside my skull,
like a delicate dinner meticulously
prepped, for us to feast on, on days,
and nights when we feel like no one.
You are the air inside my lungs,
like cigarette burning, exhale,
all the toxins filling the bags,
slowing down time, slowly.
You are still the good things
the good news like in masses,
you are the preach I listen to,
with everything about you,
I wear, on my arms, on my ankle,
like wooden bracelets we get,
you are laced around my neck,
like a scapular, you are my religion,
and like paint brushes, you are
painted all over my skin,
traces of forevers, images,
running down my cheeks,
down my sleeves, coating me.
You are time, with numbers,
I always try to count, unending,
with moments after moments,
like ripples in events, not through
ticks but through nights of becoming.
You are a prayer, not a hope or wish,
I mutter your name, every time,
for you are my voice, your strands
hang at every low and high note,
as if I understand one, but I know
there is you in pieces of me,
at the unmade tissues, the broken bones,
the painful limbs, burnt skin,
at the density of tears, the
intensity of laughter, the words,
I hear you, you play in my ears,
like a marching band, I always stop
to listen to your music. You are
the silhouette when I am against the sun,
a shadow, the light that embers
a corner of my brain, you ignite,
rays passing through window glasses,
you crawl not under, but through
my skin, and baby, believe me,
when you open me out,
you would find names of you
written all over my innards,
and there, you will know,
how much I have kept the love
that you have made me know.