Melancholia Agitata
1 Minute Read Time
Ignore the children laughing in the trees
and the black cows staring into your mirror void.
Focus on the sounds of the wounded animal
trapped dying inside the walls of your body.
You were made sensitive like a candle on a ledge,
so a wolf was planted inside you. Its fangs
are still blooming in the black earth of your heart.
You’ve often wondered if it’s possible to learn
every texture of depression. You’ve felt its
terra-cotta under your feet and white chalk under
your fingernails. But you’ve never felt these
visceral textures before—this howling landscape
of dark wool, flower seeds, and golden-yellow
onion skins. Somewhere there’s a window opening
to a warm field of light. Somewhere there’s
a new language burning white inside itself.
Read more from Issue 17.2.
