Sick

If none of my other poems have made you sad, this one might do it. There's a bit of a story that goes with this poem. One night, I was talking with one of my best friends about my worsening depression. I hadn't really been able to talk about it before, and I was so caught up in what I was feeling, I wound up saying something that hurt her. If I hadn't been so focused on my own pain I would have known better, but as it was I didn't even realize what I'd said until it was too late. That night, I hardly got any sleep, because I was crying too hard over what I'd done. The next day, no longer feeling sorry for myself, instead feeling sick of myself, I wrote this.

Sick

A wall of clouds approaches
Animals flee before the blackness it brings, yet I stand in a stupor
Overwhelmed by these sun-blotting behemoths, I see what they are
They’re the collection of my grief, making me ignorant of the sky
I’m shooting blindly in the fog
Crying like a lost child when my shot finds an unseen target
And like a lost child, I still believe myself the victim
I am sickened
Guilt and disgust are two fangs in the mouth of the serpent
Whose coils envelop me as I am devoured
And its venom steals what little strength I had
Yet my tears lend strength to the clouds
My voice shakes the distant hills
Shakes the breath from my body
Unearths the creatures we forget exist
They writhe at my feet, blinded eyes staring
My own stare back, and though I cannot see them
I am sickened
Their stench drives upward, intensifying the black walls surrounding me
Alienated, lost, suffering
Always at my own hand
Crying forgotten words to the heedless creatures and the unforgiving clouds
Tilting into madness, still shooting, still creating victims
Still unable to see them
I am sickened

—Adrienne McKay 2010