this is where my comfort is. though it's uncomfortable for my loved ones to understand how or why i exist in this dark echo, this reoccuring space that can house my huge life and dreams of death...

i've awakened with partial eyes
squinting desperately, fitting
small bodies of thread
in the opening of my sight.
the heavy focus mirrors me
as night calls me child,
nursing me as if feedings
were the rememdy to darkness...

depression has built me this home where relationships with shadows are prevalent. i sleep beside a candle, so when the wick flickers, i think of eye lids blinking to show existence is seeing what produces tremble. a body of wax, scented in the debris of its own creation: my body, swathed in the moment of death-thoughts, bones protruding the soil layer of my skin--
is this the body others see?