Like Rudy Francisco,
my depression is also an angry deity.
It laughs in sinister. Then hovers over me to imply that,
“We are one, collectively.”
My depression is a possessive, schizophrenic
sadist that never wants me to speak aloud.
Shh. So I hide to shed my feelings, my layers,
my dead skin, through ink whenever I'm feeling blue.
Though, new attempts surely arise.
Pen eraser whites out my thoughts and dopes me up
until the voice in my head is either mimed or shrunk, refined.
Like my depression is some sort of shrink in that way, psycho-lo-gist.
A cardiologist should thoroughly check this heart of mine.
Too, my sneaky anxiety creeps along and sits in the nosebleed section,
twiddled in vanity. Because the only thing that's dripped in red
in red in red, is my sanity. Pssh, what sanity?
Just count me out, crop me out of this circle, of this image. Ripped flesh
re-sown, resold to the next character. This cycle never ends. They never flee.
They each take turns, a swing, emptying this vessel until it is as hollow as a carcass.
And yet, they still dig and dig and dig. Why, what exactly is left of me?