Milk skin

My depression stares back at me

lidless and lifeless.

The stupor is sullen,

self-loathing.

The festering liquids

track acidic

thoughts and slow hands.

Air moves thickly,

threating to choke me

or maybe that's just my guilt.

The endless episodes

the pretence of sleep

as prayer

to take me

anywhere else but here.

Awkward isn't it?

How they tell you to breathe

to move

to choose a better path.

You ask for clarity from the concussed

confused little corner of me

that is clinging to existence.

I can't even hear you.

Each time, I wonder

how much left there is to lose

if faded fabric

can ever be restored.

These threads are floating

above

beyond

somewhere unconscious

of the tapestry there are ripping from.

Glacial decay,

insufferable remains

for all the decoys

two suffer to stay.