I know the depth
or perhaps I merely feel the grinding of motives.

Grey metal cabinets laugh at me
when I work to tell you what breathing despair is like.

Orange peels stick in my throat
as I work to shred any resemblance to a depressive.

Fortune finds purpose for me,
but long wires bent and wracked and twisted gorge at me.

Dark, thick tubes say hello
at most inopportune points and melt my face.

Bleeding crayons, moving in fitful jerks,
paint my history, blister my love with knowledge of my inadequacies.

Still, I pound, I dream, I fantasize
that someday a person might sprout with understanding and enjoyment

while swiftly breezing through my work with a knowing grimace.