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.”
