Star On The Ocean Bed

Poet: Pritisha

She said,

“I feel like a star

At the bottom of an ocean

And when I say star, I mean all I do is burn myself.

Depression is cancer

I am the oncologist

Treating my apathetic self.

The scars on my body-

Is my chemotherapy.

Depression is a red rose

With no petals

Only thorns

Bred to veil daggers

Under its humble guise.

It feels like a dance

Rhythmic and graceful

Pirouettes on a needle top

On the edge of a cliff.

Depression is a minister

Tying me and my doom

Into holy matrimony

For us to conceive pain.

Our progeny, pain, is crying out for salvation.

I am the graveyard

Of exhilaration,

Tombstones inscribed with a lifetime of remorse.

Remorse of never being enough.

Not even for myself.

Something is beating my insides

When I look inside

It is my heart.

(No I don’t want to die)

I have become a liability

To myself.

I am already deep in the ocean

Drowning, gasping for air.

My death is the lifeboat.

My rescue.

I am an assassin

Hired by my body and soul

To device my murder

For it is a sacrificial killing.”

The hand which twisted the knife was her own.

In each swell of pain,

She knew that it was the pain who died,

And her death was merely the collateral damage.

Yet in the cremation of her agony and anguish existed the ashes of her kith and kin.

If only she had still been here,

I’d tell her, “Underneath all the agony lies the refuge, you are the risk yet the rescue you seek.”


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