Depression wears a weathered leather jacket;

she sheds it just for me.

Hazel hexagons tattoo her back,

a tortoise,

seductive with her wisdom.

She watches me watch her

undress.

 

Her dilated pupils wobble 

as her eyeballs roll out of her head

and onto the floor.

“Go on, try them.” 

 

And how could I not?

 

With fingers like tendrils of smoke,

she strips me of my own eyes

and they dissolve in the vapor of her hands.

My sockets burn in darkness 

until my veins accept her slimy organs

in a successful transplant.

 

“Ah, now can’t you see

that you’re not good enough?” 

 

Oh yes, I see it now.

 

She smiles and kisses me.

She says she likes my taste.

She steeps me in her tea kettle 

and drinks my bleeding zest.

 

I feel sleepy, 

so I turtle comfortably  

inside her shell.

 

I miss my Self 

and lose track of the days,

but I think I like it here.

 

I devour the words she serves, 

dipped in sugar.

Cavities fester in my teeth

as I learn to feed myself:

 

I am nothing.

 

Still the words taste so sweet,

and I deserve this sting in my nerves.

 

Don’t I?