Depression & Other Magic Tricks

i held hands with my sadness, sang it songs in the shower, fed it lunch, got it drunk & put it to bed early.

mom says where did anxiety come from? anxiety is the cousin visiting from out of town depression felt obliged to bring to the party. mom, i am the party. only, i am a party i don't want to be at.

mom still doesn't understand. mom, can't you see? neither do i.

how do i teach my ears to hear songs without the ghosts of you inside of them?

insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.

mom, i am lonely. i think i learnt it when dad left; how to turn the anger into lonely, the lonely into busy.

my heart has developed a kind of amnesia, where it remembers everything but itself.

i am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness i cannot baptize myself in.

when i see a candle, i see the flesh of a church. the flicker of life sparks a memory younger than noon; i am standing beside her open casket, it is the moment i realize every person i ever come to know will someday die, besides, mom, i'm not afraid of the dark, perhaps that is part of the problem.

it's weird how a jacket can be more reliable than a father.

my happy is a high fever that will break, my happy is as hollow as a pin-pricked egg

& my heart has developed a kind of amnesia, where it remembers everything but itself.