The Visitor

 

depression-1_3

At night

He comes

Obese, gray-black

Anger so repressed He is shaking

Below, like Earth’s been doing lately

Quaking

His eyes blank, mouth soft

Head knows nothing of his rage

Below

Trauma can split a person in two like that

So he sits

Heavy

Thinks he’s empty

Squashed

A car in a junkyard

Abandoned, forsaken

Crushed flat, fat

Like an overgrown gourd

Bulging, tumorous

At night

He comes

He speaks to me

An untrusting “hello”

Though

It is my voice I hear

Obese and gray-black

 

 

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