Days of Gray.. (Poem)

When did waking up become such a chore? When you can’t tell the difference between day or night, because they both blend together in an unflattering shade of gray?Because in the end, old scars still bleed, because someone new rips them open?


Hoisting myself up on the chilled kitchen counter, the mug of coffee in my hands, Black with a teaspoon of sugar. Yet somehow that sweet comforting taste turns sour in my mouth. I can feel the shiver rush over my skin as it comes in contact with the countertop, my bare legs and ample ass dispelling the warmth they’ve accumulated from the nights restless sleep.


A strand of messy hair drapes over the left side of my face, much ado about nothing today. My screen is black and I set myself up to fail, everything sounds so much better in my mind. In hindsight, you’d think I’d learn, that sharing space with my depression stops the gears will to turn. Blocking my senses of self awareness so I stay down in the basement another day.


I know as soon as my fingertip hits the screen, I’ll be off in another timelines version of me. In that timeline I’ve achieved so many things, but I’m still sat upon the countertop, contemplating the reflection in my coffee mug. Depression is like an interdenominational beast, it can skip through timelines, smell you when you’re weak, all so it can come use that negative emotion to feed.


The big bay window to my right, blinds wide open displaying the lack of sunshine. What feelings do I wanna convey today? The black and blue blades of my fan soothingly filling my ears with a calming lull. Leaning back in my chair and gazing up at the white ceiling.


When he’s sad, his blue eyes match the current gray sky, he won’t look at me, that black hair messy he tries to hide behind. I can see him, standing with his back against the white wall, to me so much more vastly beautiful than he could ever accept. Sitting on the hardwood floors, it’s 6pm and the day is fading, him looking out of the window into issues he won’t speak about.


The empty loft catching every sound, a heart beat, a sigh of contemplation, a swallow of tension to hold in the frustration. I lay back on the rough cold floor, I hear you turn towards me finally. You slip off your shoes and grab a pillow from an open box nearby. You lay down by my side and we both lay our heads on the pillow. Finally eye to eye, you take my hand and place it against your cheek, nuzzling it as a kitten would. As if it’s the most precious item on earth. You say to me, “I’m sorry baby”, and we both fall asleep under the white ceiling.


I remember that day so vividly, the day we moved into this place. The emptiness, the echo of hope bouncing off the walls, the light of ideas so bright you could see in the dark. Sock skating on the freshly pinned hard wood floor, there’s nothing in the world I needed more. The pain you seldomly spoke of was always a knife hiding in the shadows.


It’s 8pm when my mind is snapped back to the present by rumbling storm clouds in the distance. I can hear the wind pick up outside, clouds reflection dancing over the once bright lit ceiling. That red line blinking on an empty black screen signally to put fingers to work. I breathe in deep, blink rhythmically, and finally let my thoughts begin to speak.



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