Hope for the Chronically Depressed

Sideways Hope.

Slanted and crooked Hope. 

Hope with its broken teeth

And dirty fingernails.

"You're a fighter", it says and

Yes, there is always a fight.

But Hope never fights back.

I hit Hope everytime that I look at something sharp.

Hope wraps me in its arms,

Insisting that it is okay.

It is okay that I break its

Teeth and leave blood on

Its lip.

It insists that once

We used to walk hand in hand.

Sometimes I remember,

but often not.

I whisper, "I'm sorry"

Like a supplication, like a prayer.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Hope holds my hands

And insists that it is okay.

I believe it. 

This poem is about: 


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