Depression Cherry



As we observe the lights of town from far away, the world is contained within my beating chest, and as she rests her head against my open palms, she tells me how dearly she would like to become a star. Above us in the umber sky, there are black holes and nameless dead gods, and in between, there shines the many dots of light that represent all the angels that were never given a chance here on earth. Her teeth are uneven, but it only adds to her charm, and as she places them upon my ear, the distant wail of hyenas makes me hold her tight. These headaches get the better of me, as does a lack of energy brought on by too many early starts, but she is a redeemer- she is one and all. There are crystals in the corners of her eyes; they twinkle and shimmer and melt like snow that flows down the sidewalk on a warm afternoon in February where the birds sing and the air tastes of sulphur and black lipstick. Sometimes we kiss the lipless, and even though it hurts, in the end, it means nothing at all. Well, that’s not strictly true. It hurts not to be loved in return, and it hurts to be treated as if the love you carried were useless and you were little more than a dead animal ready to be placed in the trash along with old teabags and yesterday’s newspapers. Things that hide behind the sun; emotions and shapes that taste like jam smeared on toast, or on the chin of the one who loves you despite how bad you feel inside. There’s this great dance between life and death, and the worse place you can put yourself is slap bang in the middle. You either give it all to the struggle or drift out to sea with those carrier bags that strangle turtles and clog up the guts of whales. You embrace the waste or pulsate with love, you don’t just sit around looking pretty. Pulling her close, there are no sounds, only the regret of not being able to keep her safe when it matters most. And yet even so, I do my best in giving her what remains of my heart, and despite speaking no words, she senses my intentions by slipping her fingers into mine.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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