Depression Depot
She’s an open wound, festering insecurity
The boil that’s ripe with self-indulgence
The hated darkness that hides in my shadow
and I’m lost deep inside her
She’s the false hope, fond of lust
The crusty scab longing for my nails
The prolonged silence after death
and I’m following her down
She’s the painful cold in morning
The wasted tears of orphaned children
The blood that’s drawn from pierced flesh
and I’m licking her fingers clean
She’s the stench of the forgotten corpse
The needle in the junkie’s arm
The shame, next the empty bottle
and I’m keeping her name alive
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