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.
Royal Rose 