My original sin clung to me like cheap perfume,
A robe of shadow, a crown of bent metal;
These were my trophies for having escaped the prison of depression.
The darkest parts of my heart were now the most alive,
My melody was a melancholic symphony.
In my own spotlight, a mourning cello moaned.
I strung my bow with broken nails,
Stroked the strings with my tears.
I was now poetically estranged.
I was alone among my peers,
But in unison with survivors.
Solitude and togetherness haunt me.