The Staircase Only We Have Ever Seen

I always think I’m past the worst,
That my depression bought the farm.
That my sorrow has kicked the bucket, as they say,
Or some other idiom of colloquial charm.

I always manage to fight it back,
Push it back, push it down, push it away.
Whether healthy or not,
It gets me through the day.
I’ve been growing, changing, becoming better.
That’s what I always tell myself, anyway.

Then, the other day, heavy storms swept through,
And seven people died.
I whispered along with the rest about the horror and how sorry I was, but if I’m being honest?
I lied.

Not because I reveled in their pain or didn’t feel bad.
People that want to live should be alive.
People should have the right to life.
To smile and exist and thrive.

No, see, I surprised myself even.
Because my natural reaction was jealousy.
Why can’t I be killed in an act of nature?
A hurricane or an earthquake, or drowned by the sea?
I’m sure they didn’t feel lucky.
But I can’t say I don’t wish it was me.

And that's why I’m writing this.
Because I did that thing where I spiral and spiral and spiral,
Bleary eyed and restless.
Trying to find the next step upwards when I can’t see my feet in front of me.
Trying to find that staircase;
You know the one I mean.
The one out of the pit.
The one that doesn’t want to be seen.
The one that's already slick with blood and vomit.
The one that only we have ever seen.

Recommend Write a ReviewReport