Depression Stills Me

I Depression stills me again, and I watch with concrete eyes. Women I never could have been see me only 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

I Breathe Still

For a minute or more, I was dead as you, as you were technically dead before the end was absolute— before your brain conceded. For a minute or more, my world was edged in blossoming dark, engrossing, on the cusp of consent. Blackbirds congregated, chattered ‘round my head, and they called dibs on my vital

Truth: the liquid kind

I listen to Radiohead when I contemplate killing you— I want to smash your glass and get at the inside of your meaning. Shells tell different truths— look at me. See, I’m right and tight with my plastic teeth, and painted eyes that never blink. We mislead, you and me. © Kindra M. Austin (image: Gifer)

Monkeys on My Back

It is my circus and those are my monkeys stacked up high— one and ninety-nine, shredding down the big top and feeding me the pieces.   © Kindra M. Austin (image: Pinterest)

Phantom Pain

  Thought I’d felt my heart stir. Make my hands into shovels and dig up the garden, again.   Goddamned, I am. There it is, feeding the weeds.   © Kindra M. Austin (image: Pinterest)

Eating Dirt

Dirt in my mouth— I’m still spitting grit. I used to play in the driveway with my Big Foot monster truck while Mom and Dad argued in the kitchen; their voices obliterated the window screen and shattered my veins. My bottom lip was always bleeding from punctures pressed by top teeth, bunny sharp. My skin

Hellfire

You threaten me with fire—say you know where I am going. The joke is on you, cos I’m already burning in my shoes, cracking concrete wide fuckin-open.   © Kindra M. Austin (image: Pinterest)

Dreadful

I can’t drive past a dead animal splayed and stinking on the side of the road in the summer heat without thinking of you. The tang you’d left behind inside your apartment is no different than a fucking stupid deer, rotting; we’re all animals, after all. The similarity is incredibly depressing. Makes my mind wander

Last Judgement

Come on down from there, if only for a quick minute. The last time I saw you is unsatisfactory in hindsight. Retrospection is a bitch dressed in my skin— I’ve become leprous. I may not pray to God, but I do talk to Jesus. My words fall on dead ears. Christ will not come to

Happy Wives Bake Pies

The sun came begging again at my doorstep; I turned him away. Got no use for gods at play. Too much decease has grown me up. I am weeds, immune to disease, and I only live in order to survive. But to what end? So questions Depression, mine. Depression is the paparazzi— always trying to