Despair

You who laugh at poetry and shy from anarchy,
claiming logic while lurking in shadows,
hiding your pain even from yourself like you have done,
like you still do —
You’ve made me smaller, and I can’t forgive you for that.

I grew up like an oozing wound, swollen from opening so many times.
Depression, for me, was dermatillomania. Despair was my chosen companion.
It’s true, I was a monster to anyone who tried to heal me,
but I was a monster who could write.
My lungs were larger than my rib cage, and the feeling was addiction.

But you, you laugh at poetry, cower from chaos,
filled just enough with abhorrence for emotional displays that you changed me.
Complacency changed me. Or was it happiness?
I stopped picking at my soul and my skin closed up around it.

Now, to write one line of truth,
I’m making gashes in my body where I know you won’t notice them.
I’m tearing holes in my muscles, snapping my cartilage, breaking my bones,
just to see my old friend again.