And a wounded existence with bleeding soul—
Sore void etching surrender on half-eaten
sun beaten out of conforming,
it drapes in aloneness.

The joy of marsh meshed in grain of its dreams.
Father said it’s weight on its heaviness.

All low lands lends a rejoicing,
their eaters—gods of humankind.
All hard pressings all slip sweetly
like slope between where two legs meet.

The heaven conjures in sliding
in between; jarring. Sometimes, death comes,
bringing with itself broken bones of life.

Call it a make out, call it a bedding,
call it a slithering in night candle light
and see grief orgasm in retrospect.

Say it is splendid.
Say it is a blue thud
punctuating emptiness with stark
stars of footprint—a wish to die
miracled into excellence.

Say it is beautiful.
What is beauty if not the glorification of bias?
What is grief but half-hatched peace of depriving.
What goes low if not for birthing?
Or argue it with Ocean Vuong.

Memory mines in remembering.
I remember Teju Cole
I remember Plath,
I lace needle-eyed geniuses with these crumbs,
these gems, these unravished queens of muse;
their spur—a dark star
decorated in low spirit.

I worship the silent scent of sadness.
I understand the mockery of misery.
I know the depth of wormwood
waters of weariness,
its weight capable of edge settings.
And I appreciate the purity of pains.
Now, dear God, bless me with depression.














Photo by Kyle Boe on Unsplash