I'll hold your hand and guide you in this eternity we call
Depression.
Like a spaghetti strand the length of highways,
Soft and brittle and weak and limbless,
The neverending struggle to push it all down within the pits of your stomach
Proves to be most
Difficult.
"I am an eater,"
You attempt to utter, then scream and shout but
Your attempts fall short.
You're full.
The spaghetti's stuck between your molars and incisors,
Wrapped your tongue like a lasso,
Left you breathless,
Fighting,
Kicking,
Dying.
And the damn strand still hasn't ended.
You wrap your bony fingers around your neck, beg
For some form of release,
For some internal force to arise and leave you peaceful and happy but
Somehow, you're still persistent.
You still want to see the strand to the end.
You still want to find an answer to eternity even though
Infinity has no end.
You're blinded in your own despair and curiosity
Until you finally forgot:
You could've always bitten it off.