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Depression
April 12, 2013
Why can't I scream until my throat becomes raw?
Why can't I weep until the tears overwhelm me?
Why can't I pound my fists against the wall,
And strangle myself with my leather belt?
I can stare at the ceiling,
And count the white curdles,
1002, 1003, 1004.
I can listen to the rain,
In my artificial sound machine,
And try to find the pattern.
Please, mattress,
Become a pit of sand,
And swallow me up,
Until you spit out my bones,
And I become the home,
Of the spiders.
© Becky B., New London, NH
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