Depression Stills Me


Depression stills me again,

and I watch with concrete eyes.

Women I never could have been see me


as a monument for the otherwise; and I am lonely,

here in this public park.

Pigeons clutch my fingertips and

peck at my nail beds; flecks of red

collect at my feet and I’m reminded of

the first time I bled:

I was fourteen, and afterward, I sang

hymnals for my hymen

while he washed me off his hands;

he, the father of my child.

I loved him, once.


Depression stills me.

Men sit in my shadow on a

hot day and eat their meat lunches

while the pigeons peck my nail beds.

Flecks of red collect at my feet, and my feet,

which were meant for gardens,

smell like city dog piss.


Depression stills me.

I am no monument, but

a tombstone,

lonely over an empty grave.  

Published by Kindra M. Austin

Author of fiction, poetry, and very sweary social commentary. Editor, and co-founder of Indie Blu(e) Publishing. Co-founder of Blood Into Ink, and Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen.

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