In the stone cold silence of loneliness
I bode my time.
Waiting for the inevitability of death,
Invisible bugs marched up my limbs
Implanting their poisons into my flesh
Causing healing to cease.
Imperfect pieces of my melting pain peeled off slowly
Leaving remnants
Of self-abhorrence behind
To twist through
To attack
Every last piece of hope
That struggled for an ounce of life's breath.
A reassurance that this isolated hell
Would not continue for one more
Endless
Purposeless
Lonely day.
'What's on TV?' I said to myself.
'Whose one life can I live today?'
Many reminders
To my sick mind
Of what I was not:
Pretty
Fit
Lovable
Successful
Able to leap tall buildings
Have a brain transplant
Be able to handle every
Trial and Tribulation life threw at me
With finesse
Not mussing up my make-up
Monday through Friday
From one to two.
It was not working.
I couldn't even do that right.
This depression waited patiently
For my attention
Dragging me down
To feed off the remains
Of the happiness that I thought was
Only reserved for everyone but myself.
On the outskirts.
Observing others.
Too scared to join in.
Not knowing my own worth,
Thinking I was a waste of space.
Undeserving of life's joy.
Unable to wade
Through the shame and despair.
An injured flower at my center
Withering,
Raw and dry,
Neglected,
Abused.
The stem
Not broken
Bent.
Sitting
Waiting
Needing
Yearning
For a semblance of love
Care
Attention
Reverence for life.
Finding meaning
In the suffering of my old truth.
At last,
There is that.
Truth.
And it's mine.
-Elizabeth Hipwell
-Elizabeth Hipwell
