a poem

THREE DAYS WITHOUT EFFEXOR

 Streetlights reflect in puddles

like small potholes of light,

but even that image can’t inspire

the poet to breathe.

Depression sits in her like a saucer,

completely removable,

given the right circumstances,

given the right medicine.

But for now the saucer lies in her chest,

shrapnel of melancholia,

a cup overflowing with eagerness

only to sleep, to sample oblivion.

2 thoughts on “a poem

  1. I like the poem. Every time I learn more about what you went through, I am saddened but I am also excited by how God has used that to shape you into who you are now.

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