Window to a Wounded Soul

Gwyneth Landaker

My depression is a monster.
With sharp claws,
Scaly skin,
Pointed fangs,
And a blood-curdling roar.

 

He is hideous and horrific.
With decaying teeth,
Contorted limbs,
And a large looming face,
That displays his derisive grin.

 

He is a monster.

 

Or so I thought.

 

In truth, he looks like me.
A young child,
Who’s short in stature
And in temper,
Lashing out at random,
Hurting anyone and anything
That dares to get too close.

 

But he regrets it afterwards.

 

I swear he does.
I think he does.
I hope he does.

 

He wears a pallid expression
And atop his brow
Rests a crown of thorns
That dig into his scalp
Like a razor across skin.

 

His chest is splayed open,
Revealing his heart,
A mess of gore and blood
Poorly stitched together;

 

Barely beating,
Barely feeling,
Barely surviving.
But the worst are his eyes.
Tired orbs sunken into his skull
With lifeless irises
That are a window to a wounded soul.

 

If eyes truly reflect the soul,
Then, oh how broken his is.

 

Like a wounded child,
Or a lost puppy.
He pouts,
He cries,
He screams,
And shouts.

 

And they all just watch
As I try to console the beast.

 

They all just stare
As I wipe away his tears.

 

They all just gawk
As I pick him back up.

 

They all just glare
As we walk hand in hand,
Side by side,
Right back into that crossfire
Of our mutated mind.

 

But they don’t know
That beast is just a boy.
A boy I keep in company.
And right now,
This boy and I see no light
As we walk through this tunnel called ‘life,’
Where people constantly say
“There is a light at the end.”

 

And I so badly want to ask
“Is that light God
Or the devil coming to greet me?”
“Will that light be my end or beginning?”
“My savior or undoing?”

 

Last night I tasted the tang of copper
On the tip of my tongue.
I looked death in the face
Held his empty gaze
Full of empty promises
And he extended his hand
Which I accepted.

 

So death and I dance in this corridor
With a boy who hums hymns
And mouths the melodies
To our withering waltz
While outsiders open their doors
To gaze at the girl who lost her mind
And the boy who lost his heart
As they dance with the very devil
Trying to kill them.

 

The thing about death is,
He doesn’t have eyes.
He holds no soul,
No empathy,
Nor compassion.

 

The thing about the boy,
Is he has blue eyes,
That embody the despair
His heart cannot contain.
But at least he has compassion.

 

At least he has life.

 

If eyes truly reflect the soul,
Then, oh how broken he is.
Oh how broken I am.

 

Oh how broken am I?