by C.E. Wilder
Depression's a hell of a drug.
Poor Twisted Me
I chew on suffer
I chew on agony
Swallow whole the pain
Oh, it's too good to be
That all this misery Is just for,
oh, poor twisted me
I exist in a space between reality and dreams. In your mind, I wait. The thoughts you love most, I devour, and you are left with the worst. Your misery is proof that I've dined well. And when there's nothing more for me, I chew on what's left like a dog with a bone. Your despondence is a bitter treat. However, it has become an acquired taste.
Now I wait for the self-pity, bloated and black. I sit upon your chest as you futilely attempt sleep. I thrive on your nightmares and the sleeplessness they bring. The weaker you become, the more thoughts I have to worry between my jagged teeth. I crack them open and suck out the marrow of your misery.
Once I played a game of catch and release. For more delicious thoughts, I allowed the light to shine through, creating a cycle of day and night. But I've grown greedy and desperate. Stay here in my shadow, melancholy friend, so I never go hungry again.