Sometimes - Olive Murray

Sometimes - sometimes, but not always, my depression is a nest
that I can bed myself down into, forget where I was, where I have
been, where I need to be. Sometimes it is a weighted blanket that
covers me fully in its heated entrapment, remembers that I am just
fragile and young and imperfect. There are times when my whole
being is made up of this depressed state, where depression becomes
me, and I become it, and there is nothing left to say but sad. I am
not lonely. I am not the fettered youth I used to be, tied down to some
great rock in the bottom of a too deep pond. I am just a tired adult,
made of inadequacies that rage inside me like fermentation, with
bubbles that build until I cannot breathe. Sometimes I am a catch all
state for human decency, and sometimes I fall fast for breathless men
in pink shirts with a can of beer in his hand and a pool cue digging into
my side because skin on skin on skin is too intimate - and you were
always a hallway between then and today, made for filling with
love and-or words that I cannot repeat.
Sometimes I am full up with something indefinable, which catches,
loose lipped and tight bellied in my sternum, with big deep cracks
which run up the waistband of my shorts and leaves me breathless.
This tried and true adolescence sends me backwards, feigning
ignorance and pretence. You were not who I thought you were,
and not who I wanted you to be. I remember meeting a soft
haired man with a big, gentle smile made of pinecone teeth and
silver spoons; the first time I saw your feet and the imprint of your
hand on cold glass; your industrial baggage full of unimportant
items made for handing out without memories; the way you
choked back tears that time you looked at me; who you became
when feeling inhuman and inhumane.
I don't know when we'll meet again. I don't know when I'll see the
brilliant blue and green and hazel eyes that held me fast and called
me honey. If I loved you then perhaps I will learn to love again -
I don't know if I'll ever see that face of yours, or hold your hand
again. I don't know if I will ever press my palm to your shoulder
blade in some faint attempt at humiliated love. But I want you to
know, out there, wherever you are... you felt like home.