A Conversation With My Depression
By Nikita Gill
Hello.
My name is Hollow.
I live inside your soul.
Under the layers and layers of skin,
and tissue and muscle…
all the way down where nothing
and everything survives.
(I wish I knew before I trusted you
That lying is second nature to one
that plays with my many regrets like you.)
My name is Hollow.
I live inside you now,
because you gave me the power
in all your virtuous belief
that the world was good
to survive your strength.
(I hoped to God you wouldn’t
lie or steal or break what is already
a thousand pieces of a broken soul.)
My name is Hollow.
You let me in when sex
began to feel like an ache.
But the pain felt better than
dealing with the hurt
inside your head, your heart…
(This was always a world for those
that were harder than me
Strength is sometimes a very relative thing.)
My name is Hollow.
I am the jagged lines you draw
all along your heart, your mind, your brain,
your muscles, your bones…
The sharp edge of a knife,
the scarlet drops of remorse.
(Here’s a question now for my soul:
How many times can
a broken thing break?)
And Hollow replies,
it’s abyss taking over my eyesight:
Let’s see shall we?