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Illustration by Dulce Maria Pop-Bonini
Poetry Column
When the days grow short and the light fades thin, the weight of winter settles deep within.
Nov 17, 2024
ballad of my seasonal depression
I have no room to feel pain,
No room to breathe,
No room to even bleed
Not from my veins,
Nor in a way that gives life
Not even when the light is on me
Because still,
The shadows find a way to choke me
when I'm blinded,
and in my sleep
If and ever I say too much
But in the light
They can’t touch me
quite as well
And yet,
I prefer the darkness
Any touch is a kind of warmth
The kind I don’t deserve
Even when my fingernails turn blue
Even when the blood that leaves my body
Isn’t the kind that gives life
But the kind that takes
Because I still want a love like yours
A love that takes
Because being swallowed by you
Is the only kind of love
I know
death has become me
death has become me
and it holds me by the neck
till it batters and bruises me
like the way i always imagine my lover would
like the way i always expect my mother to find my body
pale
unkept
and unloved
though her eyes will wet
and my father’s hand will grace her back
the child coffin i watch them from
is the only place
i imagine i’ll get a good night's rest
Micah Hein is a Deputy Features Editor. Email them at feedback@thegazelle.org.
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