Depression
by Tim Kaney
You fucking suck you piece of shit thing. You sat there trimming my inner thingies and un-tethering all my important tethers. Why? Just cuz you could? Just cuz there was an opening? Huh? Your little seedlings of hopelessness and despair sowed and raised while I go on unawares. Godamn stress and anxiety were like the nurturing sun and water; my despair the fertile ground upon which you worked your damn little fucking spade. I bet your little sack of sad seed were my insecurities and your watering jug my childhood trauma. Yeah, you are a pretty little shit faced nick knack aren't you? For so many years, you squatted; waited; toiled; until it was time to reap the harvest. And boy were times good. Well, the demand was high for an outpouring of emotion so you were there and just had to nudge the wagon for it to begin to pour into the market grounds. And did it stop? No, all cried at it's bountifulness; all wished to have some of there own, shit knows there was enough to go around. You just stood there watching, smirking, smiling, enabling the takers and the lovers of these offerings you laid at their feet. They didn't know, they thought you brought food and nourishment. Sure, nourishment only the most troubled of souls know. Ample anguish, horrific harvest, nasty nourishment. All your little hooks dug deep into all who consumed. None could move on, tugged by your heartless hate, tattered and battered. Weighed down beyond reason with your years long sowing of torment, betrayal, trauma, sadness, and disappointment. None knew what you were doing, since you were always smiling and waving, all assumed a helpful hand toiling away at the day's dirty work of staying healthy. Course, all the fucking shit that was too hard, too painful, too much to address - "I'll take it!", you say. "Trust me, and I will take care of this pain, you need not worry. At least not today!" Come time to harvest the crop - you chose great timing, my little shitting friend, to let loose. When you came to collect, boy howdy. None could resist, they all fell to their knees, screaming in emotional torment as you waddled by, glancing in admiration at your doings. All your hooks, scythes, bludgeons, and tentacles carefully choosing victims. I think I see my face inside you, no not me! How could this be? It wasn't supposed to be this way. Little did I know you had room for mountains of pain and suffering in you. I am impressed, but not surprised. But guess what? Soon, you will be exploded from the inside, you fucking glutton of sorrow. Already, your bulbous belly wears thin, I push, and your sticky, mournful gut yields. I can't stand the feeling, but we need to escape. I think I can see a light outside your prison. If only I had remembered to bring my spork, I'd'a jabbed outta here hours ago. But nope, you also robbed all of us of our memories and skills to make decisions. So I have to kick at something I know I should just cut. Fuck it, at least I know I can make you wabble and maybe fall on something sharp and splatter the poor trapped inside you. When you came into my life I don't fucking know, but you have been there for some time, eh? They say you will never leave. They say I will have to fight everyday. They said it will take time. But they didn't say I couldn't build you a cage for when I escape. Perhaps, I can lock you in a room with Oompas that sing, dance, and hug you all day long you fucking slug. I know that isn't enough though, I'm fucking onto you. You may have usable parts and move about, but I see the connections you have made along the way and how deep they go. Abatement, remedies, weeding, and other treatments are going to be needed. FEMA, build me a fucking trailer. Depression - you and I are in for a long haul. Anxiety, you up next bitch. But I digress.