Taste of depression

Sometimes, oftentimes,

When I talk

To myself

I wonder what it tastes like–

Like bitter, starchy tea

With no sugar

Or like poison on your

Lips–burning body and life,

–or is it like sitting in mother’s kitchen, windows shut, smoke filling in.

What color do I breathe?

Or has the pesticide man arrived

Killing every living being

Flying and walking

Deadening grey cell matters

Unprotected by a defenseless cranium.

But what do you really taste like

Or smell like–you have been

A defaulter renting my attic

I should be more familiar

Are you me?

Like a Marquez novel,

The one with the Colonel
And the chicken

My throat feels

Covered in vines, ferns

And thorns–is that

Why I bleed?

A dark brown pleghm

Turns crimson– leaving

Red dotted tinge

In the middle.

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