What Remains


Take off the filters layered on a picture

and when wiped away all that barely remains

is the thin frame bruised by words,

and a cluttered dark mind that manages

to produces fields of wildflowers.

My deep emerald eyes placed on my still, rounded face

don't always scintilate with joy, but instead 

downpour silently with sorrow.

My chest houses a set of lungs that struggle

to breathe with the ease of peace,

but instead choke on the anxiety created in my head.

Deep rosy lips speak life to others--

while they deliver words of death to my own ears.

A heart torn by almost lovers and fleeting friends

desperately pulses a wild rhythm

At the end of my arms that stretch out to the light are two small hands that hold--

hold love and secrets,

delicate hands that create because that is the only way

I know how to temporarily escape

the war that has been going on in my head for years.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741