
Lead
Is depression something we have or something we are?
It sits in your chest
heavy and angry and dark, sucking up
all your energy
mocking your movements
any attempt at all
you make pretending
you’re worthwhile
full of life and
plans and ideas.
A go-getter
a real fuckin’ self-starter.
It laughs as your arms
flail around,
fingers forming fists
scribbling emotions on a page.
You try to be the thing you think you are
but it tells you your value:
dirt at the base of a grave.
You aren’t expecting
and you can’t rid
the lifeless lead from your
wrists and shoulders and heart
your ankles and eyelids and lips.
You can’t make faces that say
Yes I’m fine thank you
No really I’m okay.
You’ve lost the drive
to leave the couch
change out of your sweats
look nice for no reason at all.
You are made of stains and tears and lead
and your days are filled with monotony
wondering if and when and how
you can roll your body to the window
and toss yourself out
because at least maybe then
you can crack or dent or diminish
whatever it is inside of you.