what’s broken now. what’s breaking.
is the silence.
what breaks are the edges
of my fingers as i bite
and tear at cuticles.
i worry my body endlessly
when i cannot see beyond
the soft grey haze of this.
first cuticles, then diet,
then the mobility that brings
my limbs to life
that moves my heart
to frantic motion
pushes me out
toward the sun.
after my body
comes my drive.
it takes me four days
to make an edit
that should take moments.
my blog lays silent
still
as any grave
entries scattered
like headstones
bare
and beckoning.
i hang
suspended
in the grey.
i spend a Saturday
still and quiet
on my couch
pouring my eyes
into screens.
a voice in my head
that my therapist
always condemns
calls me lazy
a waste
tells me
sweet lies
to confirm
it’s diagnosis
of my indolence
i know that voice is broken
but it breaks me
Photo credit for header image goes here.
Modern Day Dirae 
I hear this. Part of my drive for writing is a panic that if I stop it will leave me.
LikeLiked by 2 people
That is a definite worry. This was more about depression stealing my ability to write. But when we stop, that really makes it harder to start again.
LikeLike
I can read myself right into this–of course, you put it much more beautifully than the narrative in my head.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! I’m so glad it spoke to you. ❤
LikeLike
Hey YOU! Get OUT of my head. Seriously though, you are not alone. Keep writing. Shitty writing (not this, this was super) leads to good writing. There are no wrong turns, just detours to the final destination and all that! K?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks for the encouragement! This poem wasn’t written while thinking about writing. It was more written about depression. Writing is just one of it’s victims.
LikeLike
Oh I got that. I did indeed.
LikeLiked by 1 person
That line about the voice your therapist condemns – I get that.
LikeLiked by 1 person
My therapist has soooooooooooooo many feelings about that voice.
LikeLike