Depression
By: Sydney Flashman
i feel It writhing in my body.
coiling in my stomach and
slithering through my brain,
injecting poison into my thoughts.
hissing hell into my mouth
and roaring for release.
the fragile prison built
in hours on leather couches,
infinite variations of
exercises and pills,
walls of anger
of tears
of nightmares
and fear.
of brief minutes of courage
in a battle to the death.
weak, shuddering under the weight
of the Monster throwing itself against them.
it’s dark outside,
one cold night among many,
perfect for It.
perfect for the small piece of hell
that lives inside
and struggles to break out.
as It waits to remind
of the self-hatred
and the anger
and the fear
and the tears
and the hopelessness
crawling up every inch
of exposed skin
flowing through
every vein
until It breaks through
every sense
the body prides itself for owning.
another war waged,
invisible,
constrained to
arms and legs
and brains.
and thoughts.