I was walking past the old bookstore.
It’s said that someone had barged into it
Killed the owner and his family
that lived in the upstairs apartment,
Burnt down all the books, all the shelves
The tattered pages,
The lost letters
The broken corners
All of them were ignited
And the smoke had suffocated the sky.
They say only one thing had survived the havoc
A broken pendant
Which was later retrieved by a police officer
Who had dusted it off
And sealed it away in an evidence bag.
So when people ask me about my depression
I want to tell them that it’s like the broken pendant
The only thing that survived the havoc.
My depression doesn’t hate me;
My depression is like an unadulterated old woman
Clawing at her body parts
Snapping at people
And digging open old wounds.
My depression is the conflicted child
Of a divorced parents.
It’s the heaviness in my heart
And numbness in my body.
And now I think
I don’t mind the numbness
Anymore than the pain
Even when I slice open my skin
Because now I think
The walls closing in on me
No longer threaten to suffocate me
I feel safer in their arms.
My depression is the homeless man
You see everyday by the pavement
Falling face first into the dirt
Chewing abandonment for breakfast
And breathing in hopelessness.
My depression makes me skip meals
But feeds me with enough sadness
To make it through the day.
My depression doesn’t throttle me
It lets me breathe enough air to survive
My depression is not a burning city
Because cities rebuild themselves
But it is like the ever burning skyscraper
Without an exit or entry.
My depression doesn’t walk out of the door
Like you did
Because there are none.
My depression is the broken remnant
Of our burnt love
Sealed away in my body’s evidence bag.
My depression is not you
But everyone says it hurts me like you used to
I don’t want to believe them
But how’s it that I feel safer in war zones?