depression—
mysterious and elusive
silent suffering
sadness—
debilitating and endless
near paralysis
madness—
lost and found
fleeting luminosity
this strange
contentious
volatile
relationship that we,
the writers,
have with death and dying
not dying of disease or heartbreak,
not dying of old age or sickness
but dying of life
to watch the skin open
like liquid flower
blood coursing out, where it shouldn't be
on the floor, from your wrists
then,
silence
depression is abstruse
sadness is arcane
madness is esoteric
but, dying?
it is an art form that
humanity does so poorly,
but I?
I do it well