Senses of Depression

 

 

I hear you as you coerce me to close my eyes again when I wake up,
You remind me of my own futile existence,
‘It’s going to be a dreadful day’, you snicker,
A cacophonous cry of meretricious music blasting through my earphones,
Struggling to suppress you,
I attempt to drown you in a sea of lyrics,
Expressions from precious poets,
Urging me to scorn you.

 

I smell you on my skin,
I choke on the scent of my decaying corpse,
You reek of unwashed hair and shameful filth,
I inhale you like stale cigarette smoke,
Into my lungs, you ventilate my body,
I gasp for air.

 

I taste you in the brackish burn of alcohol,
Or the salty sting of tears,
In the bitter bite of the anti-depressant drugs that oppress you,
They travel from the lump in my throat to the terrarium of butterflies in my gut.
The flavour explodes in my mouth,
The poisonous taste stains my tongue.

 

I feel you in my bones,
I ache and throb at the twinge of your reprehensible presence,
Your ability to inflict physical pain is underestimated,
But I feel you,
Not only in the dried mascara that coats my lashes,
Or the tightness in my chest,
But in my marrow, and in my heart.

 

I see you too, old friend,
You’re no longer imperceptible,
The certainty of your companionship comforts me,
For now I know your name,
You can no longer hide in a crowd of my irrational anxieties,
Or in the shadows of my bedroom walls.
You panic as I’m finding it easier to dismiss you,
Every day, you’re deteriorating, not me.

 

Photo by Ian Espinosa on Unsplash

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4 Responses to “Senses of Depression”

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