hello, depression, my oldest friend

Fri, 09/20/2013 - 18:13 -- itabet

Location

you wear Sadness as an oversized sweater
as a familiar haircut-
never ostentatious
instead always quiet
always specious.

Discontent taps into the bones of the vulnerable
your bones
(devours your marrow)
sedentary in the dun shadows of your heart
(disseminates invective through your veins)
a covert denizen of the human shell.

He is winsome, Grief, debonair and smooth
thriving on the cupidity of man-
the race of dissatisfaction.
your race.

He whispers you florid romanticisms
(lover)
words of perfidy
and you write love poems back
carved into your skin,
expurgating your insides to accrue room
for Sadness.
He is never satiated
hollowing out your ribs to make
Himself a den.

the concavity of your stomach
is your altar of heresy
where you sacrifice for Pain
every Sunday
to corroborate your slavery.
where you swallow subservience 
but force up all else.
where Sadness provokes you with paragons
you can never emulate.

He fetters you to Him and
leaves room for only chains
only bondage and restraint
(you can never be alone).
you castigate yourself for false transgressions
and blazon the word "failure"
on your wrists
covered by your sleeves, immutably painted.

Sadness whispers again.
the acrimonious taste of gun metal
pressed to the back of your throat
enthralls Him.

the nervous swallow.

the incisive fingering.

the reverberating clangor.

 

the end.

(so they fold up your sweater
and cut your damn hair
and deliver you to Sadness

where you belong.)

 

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