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Author: Linda Kaoma, Mental Health, Poetry, Trauma

Linda Kaoma

Depression refuses to be a pretty poem
It bullies my lines and stanzas
And gives my beautiful images the middle finger
It doesn’t want to be subjected to any reflections or rhyme
It won’t sit on couch to talk about how it is feeling

Depression refuses to be romanticised
It hates fairy tales and happy endings
It feeds on wounds, and it wants snot and tears
Depression keeps a record of all my heartbreaks
And never hesitates to share excerpts with me
It is boastful of its ability to steal my joy mid-breath

Depression digs a grave in my bed
Other times it takes over the command of my body
It once sent me to train stations at 6am
So that it could flirt with suicide
It often tells me that I would not be missed

Depression refuses to be a pretty poem
It bullies my lines and stanzas
And gives my beautiful images the middle finger
It doesn’t want to be subjected to any reflections or rhyme
It won’t sit on couch to talk about how it is feeling

 

I am a leaking bottle

I am a leaking bottle
I tell her

I am decorated with holes and cracks
Life broke me

Filling up seems futile
Joy quickly seeps through me
I tell her

You are a watering can
She says
Where does the water that seeps through you go
What happens when sadness comes
She asks

I would rather be a dam
That is full to the brim
I tell her

Are dams not man-made
She asks
Wouldn’t you rather be a river
Fresh water passing through you
To others
She asks
Wouldn’t you rather be in communion

I constantly need patching up
I am a rainbow of patchwork
I tell her

Don’t people point in wonder at rainbows
She asks

But these cracks hurt
I tell her

But is that not our magic
That we feel so much
She asks

 

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