It's Not Always My Sickness

In my own world...

My cave is dark,

the lights don't work,

my room a mess and

the faucet runs cold

on my bare skin.

The stove's flame

entices me as my reflection

burns brightly, my knifes are

no longer sharp and my sickness

in no longer chess game played

Sunday night.

My depression a game

and my bipolar a mockery.

My anxiety, insanity

my trauma a joke

to those who I love.

The walls run red

as my heart aches

like bruised ego.

The soil pulls

me deeper to

an unmarked grave where

my heart continues to

break

The wolves howl my

name, Where my head is a prison

for the insane, a swirl

of psychedelics my tongue

has never touched

because I don't know

how to love.

I feel the devil on my

shoulder whistling

sweetly that death is

sweet

Maybe I have already

tasted death, seen it, laid

with it, kissed it with

the ropes I have hidden,

the purging I have tasted,

oh, the binging I have missed

but my sickness is not

always the problem.

But Heaven

calls me home with

trumpets, saxophones,

and flutes my heart cannot

accept.

My mind is in shambles,

darkness, death, and a tongue

so rough, I have burned

the skin of others.

Tasted cotton candy

depression fill my tears,

the trembling in my

hands, the isolation

in my throat because

my world is so dark

not even the mice

visit.

I can't not love,

because last I checked

depression is my

only friend.

In my world...

my cave is dark,

my lights no longer

work and my smile

a painted memory