A poem on depression and the public.
|The cat came to me one day.
It was quite an adorable little thing, with large eyes and a fluffy tail.
I took it home with me.
It scratched my arm as soon as we arrived home, but I assumed it wouldn't happen too often, so I let it stay.
Soon enough, the cat became quite violent.
This fact gained me a lot of public attention.
I half heartedly attempted to kick it out of the house a couple of times, knowing that it would become a major liability in retrospect,
but every time, it returned, and I willingly let it bite me.
And, every time, I presented my wounds to all who were willing to see.
The injuries became infected, as I never once attempted to mend them,
fearing the act of resistance would make the cat go away.
My body began to sting like never before,
and I slowly decided that maybe it was time for the cat to go.
I earnestly tried to kick it out once more,
but it returned, just as it previously had.
As I refused to feed it, it stole my own food.
So I was left helpless, and I began to legitimately seek help.
Something, anything I could do to get rid of the vermin.
I put up a sturdy fence around my house, and like a miracle, it worked.
But I had grown used to the cat's presence.
I began to long for it again.
I told myself that this was not what I wanted, but I eventually took down the barrier.
Stretching and blinking its enormous, innocent eyes, it arrived once more.