Elephantine Depression

Elephantine Depression

I have an ill-tempered soul, tattered
With broken pieces of what I thought I was.
No longer can I rub the dirt off my shoulders,
Because that dirt has become nothing more
Than a dreary grave of the many monkeys
That relocate from my back,
After being raped and replaced by new demons.

My tongue is swollen with the foul obscenities
I yell at night while I prepare my symphony
For its midnight debut titled ‘My Perfect Insomnia’.
The fangs from my gums grow stronger,
Poking holes through my lips
And dangling my blood all over my sheet music.

How can such sadism and barbarity dwell inside
A redheaded princess from nowhere?
No pride drips from my saccharine, tearless depression.
The key to my boredom is propitiously nothing
But a small glass of crunchable ice and a bag of bandages.
The blade will come later
When I’m just too close to the end.
At that point, I start to tease myself with death.

What would the Mirror of Erised show
Should I look with my putrid eyes through its?
Me with a mere scratch on my left arm?
Or perhaps, the mirror would show
A constant stream of red,
Symbolizing the only feat I managed
To finally accomplish in life:
The untimely yet necessary death of it.