words by dominic riccitello

depression is your fingers
touching your lips
without a single breath
when your hands
are aside your hips
but your tongue is pulled
in directions which could never exist
it’s like walking on anxiety
when anxiety is your legs
you move with a pace
your hips transcend
into black
into dull
into things people don’t think of
and we work in a travesty of our emotions
becoming sensitive to colors
the neutrals we dream of
we’re skilled to the slope
the dreary hill
with a melconholy feeling
which no one can seem to fix