Tired but Trying by Richaundra Thursday

I am tired of writing about my depression.

I am tired of commodifying my own

Anxiety, as if it is the only part worth

Offering.

I am tired of diminishing other parts

Of myself because they do not

Seem to sell.

I am tired of appearing to seek validation

For specific events already

Processed Through

Or drawing attention to universal states

Requiring no input.

I do not want to set my value by pain

I’m fetishizing to be heard by no one.

So here are some other patchwork pieces,

I would like to share instead:

I love weather I can be alone with.

The paradoxical exposed safety of daylight

Because of my light skin a danger

Itself to my exposed light skin.

The rain that isolates others

Reminds me we aren’t so far from the sky

And the clouds send their greetings.

The wind keens, bangs, begs to be let in.

Like a wolf.

Like a memory.

The spring chill points out that

Only the living can shiver like death.

I don’t like bare walls.

They remind me of asylums I’ve never seen,

Hospital stays I could never afford.

The openness is claustrophobic.

I worry that I have nothing new to say;

That all my so called art is a deluded

Ekphrasis,

Regurgitating all I’ve consumed.

A story that helps no one–

But this is not a song of my depression.

Despite the loosening of my own tongue,

People swearing in frustration

Still gives me anxiety spikes:

The need to escape battling the desire

To gather up all other ears

And rock them alright.

I wear lips stained the blood of my enemies,

Because I’m worried if you ask anything

Of me,

I won’t know how to say no.

I didn’t know the tree outside my window

Had flowers on it at all until

I saw one fall and then,

I couldn’t take my eyes off the remaining,

Wondering when they’d drop.

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