Waiting for love is like

Waiting for warmth in December

Or for snow in the middle of summer–

It’s as consistent as the weather

And as simple as an atom,

Or a quiet explosion–

But I can’t seem to find it.


Talking sounds more like listening

To bursts of thunder crackling in the distance

Filling the room with static

Until the build up in our space becomes charged with rage–

Until everything has changed–

Until our bodies become nothing but pieces of wreckage:

A chaotic explosion for the barren wasteland

Where our minds are left behind to deal with the aftermath

made by our hands.


My bones are fractured in small cracks and lines

throughout my body.

I’ve been struck by a disaster that knows no category or scale to describe–

It has broken me into pieces and left me in screams of agony

From the absence of light.

I am fallen.

Left Behind

Depression: an absence of hope, filled with apathy, sitting in an empty house devoid of any colors

or windows

or doors.

Sometimes I can hear a low rumbling drone, like a constant flow moving away from me,

but I can’t place it.

I can’t decipher or understand what this sound is, or where it is going,

but I want to go with it.

On the other side of these walls I know there are roads with people and noise.

I know, because I used to be a part of it

When the Sun left my mind at peace–

So tell me…

When was I left behind in an empty, noiseless city?