They say grief dances through every line
When I pick my pen to write a poem,
said my teeth know only to chew melancholia
and my eyes only recognizes the darkness in my soul.
But, whose fault is it?
That my depression often takes the form of my mother's voice crying at her funeral, or of my father's scrambled face asking God why I was born in the first place.
My peace often springs from odd places like the dark corners of my room, sad paintings, dark poetry, and songs whose lyrics feel like salty water on bruised skin.
If peace comes to me in such dark forms, how does the warmth of happiness feel? like hot coal underneath my bed?
©hidentity
H