i can write you an essay on things that i am and things that i am not
i can relegate my being onto paper like i am no more than
a passing thought
through a philosopher's brain on a sunday morning
but what i cannot do
is stand you making me into someone i am not
i will tell you that i am depressed
i am not sad
and i am not broken
and i am not flawed
but my brain is tired and the serotonin and dopamine between my synapses
gets lost
(i don't blame them.)
i will tell you that i am depressed
and i will hear
be happy
be happy
be happy
hundreds upon thousands of times like
the drilling of a woodpecker into the oaken shell of my skull
and i will
and i am air;
i will be the last breath
you inhale but never quite
force out,
i will make your decaying ribs my home
and run through your lungs
as if i could give all the torn-out breaths at your hands
back
to myself.
and i am fire;
i am (self)destruction
and passion and anger all embroiled
in one core,
and
i am nothing
but a force of nature
developed of the immolation that
threatens to devour me whole.
i am air and fire and
i will burn myself up until nothing remains.
self-deprecation, perhaps by SolarumNyx, literature
Literature
self-deprecation, perhaps
i am not pretty;
the only thing that juts out from my jaundiced skin is
prose -
half-baked and mediocre.
the same combination of words,
draped loosely over my too-heavy bones
like a twisted Atlas carrying the weight of my diction upon
his shattered shoulders
i am not pretty;
there are no oceans in my eyes
nor emotions in my gaze
there is no more in my irises than a bundle of nerves and sensors above
a thin undercurrent of pain,
perhaps not all undeserved.
i am not pretty;
it is a letter away from petty and
pretty
is such an ugly word
i.
i can see the stars in your eyes,
the polymerization of nebulae within;
and though the sun has yet to rise
and the wishes yet to fall
the planets in your eyes never cease
their spin
ii.
do you suppose the planets above
are in love with the stars?
that love is something the heavens are barren of
seems improbable to me thus far
iii.
i can't break out of my orbit around you
you are truly the center of my world;
((if they could,
then would the planets feel this too?))
iv.
i wonder if galileo had ever felt this
did his heart beat fast as he gazed at the skies?
because this feeling seems like too much to miss-
and there is no more room
we're taught to drown our sorrows in
guilt and despair
to make ourselves feel like no one out there really cares
till we resurface, gasping, struggling for air
we're taught that depression's a sign of being weak
and when people self harm, it's just attention that they seek
and that when she's dead and gone and
buried in the ground
that oh, they should've saw it coming
and they tell you, blame yourself for everything that you've done
you messed up, so get up, your life's only begun
and when we keep blaming ourselves and the tears just still run
they look on like they're bored, like we're just old reruns
playing on the tv's for their enter
chlorine burns in her mechanical lungs
rust -
iron oxide and mars
roman god of war
launching javelins
straight to her
bare ly - beat ing
heart
marching to the
fa
ding
sounds
of a
cav
alry drum
salty whispers fade on her skin, her
screams drowned out by the
burn
of despair and
im
possible
expectations
she sinks
d
e
e
p
e
r
into the illusion of s a n i t y
screaming broken pleas of
save me save me saveme saveme savemesavemesa-
she was never good at swimming--
empty cathedrals
echo
with hints of a time long gone as
quiet prayers di
s
appear
swallowed up by
a borrowed past
free me from myself
lend me your
life
so i can
live
again
your heart beats
hummingbird patterns
across
skin and bone
i love you
just
a little,
don't tell anyone
dear,
it's our secret.