I can’t remember

how to trace the sun.

For my fingertips

are iced over cold,

and hard,

and I can’t really seem

to comprehend that melody…

but I only have these hands

and my mother

the moon

who sings her

sympathy to me.

I only know

bittersweet company.

Unconditionally

loving me---

that I forgot to love

myself.

It’s really hard

to distance yourself

from a mother.

It’s like tearing her limbs apart

and spitting on the remains,

but why should I care?

I’m scared all these metaphors

are going to insult mom.

My god, I don’t even believe in god.

I bet she thinks it’s my

other mother playing tricks on me.

How can I really know after all the

other tricks she’s played on me.

She had me picking up a blade.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of living this way.

My psychiatrist once said

I need to take control

but there's no instruction manual in the world

for how to take control of your

controlling mother named Depression.