Rigid

My bones feel rigid

like I’m living with rigor mortis,

depression’s equivalent

of arthritis.

There’s nothing the doctor can prescribe;

sunshine cannot be packaged

and nor can your smile

so I guess I’ll just wait

in my heaviness.

This opaque silence

where nothing can relieve

the nothingness I feel

whenever you leave.

 


 

© Kristiana Reed 2019

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