A Poem, Depression and Growth.

The goodbye note read thus,
“Everything I touch turns to ash.
The taste of me grows rancid in your mouth.
And mine.”

The darkness returned to reign.
Old fantasies of razors slicing into thin, delicate, spiderweb veins,
blurred with reality.

Others’ hatred mirrored my own, more profound dis-ease.
One man’s cruel words and one man’s unconditional love danced a waltz around my melting mind and will.

Perhaps the rancid me I taste, is not me.
Identities and hiding places are painfully shed.
They do not go easily into that goodnight.
I do not go easily into that bright light.

It burns, scars, pushes back, spits on me.
Life asks, “is this what you really want?”

Sometimes I say yes, sometimes scream no.
But stumble forward.
Feinting with my useless words, my actions answer for me.

“Yes.”

And every once in awhile, I remember that my vulnerability is my strength.

Image Credit: http://flatrock.org.nz/fancybox/549/

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