“Depression is a good lover. So attentive. Has this innate way of making everything about you” – Kait Rokowski
To think of naked branches of trees
I am reminded of a girl who believed she could make dying an art.
Closed her eyes and jumped off the 20th floor.
Limbs crooked like branches of Bur Oaks.
A pool of blood over her head like an unholy halo.
Face lost in the softness of the sidewalk like a lover’s kissing bottom lip.
Passersby for critics.
I am dragged to a morning when time refused to bleed.
A body wore a white dress as it floated down a river.
It thought itself a willow tree.
Head hung like a diverged dream.
One arm pointed towards the direction of its home.
The other arm waited for the sunrise.
Can you read the meniscus of its sorrows?
To think of sap from an Elm tree.
Blood on Linoleum.
Veins cut like kite strings.
There was enough time to finger paint
“Please miss me.”
The last molecule of oxygen took its bow.
You have no idea
the strength it takes for some people to continue to live.
like a seed
and watch it grow into survival.