To Depression

I find you hanging there,
swaying above me, shoes at my eyes,

and in that place I always find myself
reminded of how I admire
your resolve,

how I could not see mine to the end,

how guilt
was what pulled that box cutter
away from my forearm;

my hand, cold,
red running
down to my fingers,
small vibrations
at my feet.

How I thought of my mother
and the son she buried
at barely four years.

How I thought of my father
who witnessed
three of four siblings pass.

How I thought of my friends,
whom I feel I burden,
who wish to help or understand

but I often lack the words
to explain

how you hang
over my head,

casting over
even the shadows.

I often wish to rid of you,
cut you down
and bury you,

yet you remind me
time and time again
that you are me—
a part of me, already buried
within myself.

It is only now, realizing
one cannot kill
just a single part of themselves,

that forgiveness
would remove the noose
from our neck.