it’s running to exhaustion and running again,
and all the while,
you’d give anything for a closet and a closed door.
it’s kneeling on thorns before a fast storm,
parting your skin,
a desperate gamble to remind you you’re alive.
it’s a rabbit hole tumble to the land of nowhere,
shadows and whispers,
tears at dawn flowing to an empty night.
D isn’t for Dreams, but Depression’s reassuring lies,
told in the quiet,
told after those who didn’t understand have gone…
©November 2018, Christina Anne Hawthorne