Call Me ILL (Excerpt 1)

Plight

depression is black

laced in the hairs of –

my dermis

caught and tangled

smooth in the palm,

brittle and salty,

caked between the

skin beneath my septum.

i would plead for peace,

pay for sanity.

give thirty pieces of silver

to betray anyone for a piece –

of hope,

silence from a demon

who perches atop my sun.

my palm cradles a cure,

i question their placebo

prescribed by doctors –

already gave up on my recovery.

give me anything to silence

my discomfort.

any outcome they earn a dollar.

i stay somber

wet with grief,

traded into isolation for the peace

of my loved ones tired of my ill.

depression is black

like cuffs around my wrist –

when they label me psychotic

and restraint is a cure,

the colour behind my lids

when I pray to God for a

savior

or a pill to return me back home

stable and normal,

able to be loved

i question God’s love for me.

how he made me sad

and unimportant.

depression is unimportant,

I feel unimportant.

amidst the continuing

physicians that violate every

thought I once held secret.

try to name me ill, and incompetent,

anything but a child of God,

incapable to earn some forgiveness for sanity.

they see God has already turned his back

I feel his back to my son

depression is guilt for

missed birthdays and graduations,

money wasted on tickets,

the concerts awaiting my applause.

tears that my mother is tired of wiping,

the eggshells crunching under the concern of questions,

9 scars that haunt my forearm

I’m tired of crying

saying curses to every morning I awaken

looking at shrinking pill bottles and

wondering when I can exist without them.

depression is a weapon

and I have been assaulted

though I am not victim,

just human.

T. Banks