I worry sometimes

They’ll figure out
what I’m doing — or,
worse yet,
that they already have,
and now I’m a ticking time bomb
of my own making,

painstakingly created,
impossible to defuse.

What happens
when I
die?

Everything I have ever loved
will crumble unto dust.

Where
do I
go?

No one truly loves me
as I wish to be loved,
with a painful sort of aching
that cannot be helped,
seen in every gesture,
beheld gently,
and accepted without judgment —
in fact,
I am only tolerated.
I am resented.

Who
do I
become?

What
have I
become,

already?

No tags for this post.
This entry was posted in On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.