Blue.

  Been feeling a bit blue.  Was told that I responded in a little girl voice today.  I guess I just couldn't find the strength to make myself appear loud and adult.  I wanted to keep quiet and slither back into my shell and forget about bursting upon the world with idle threats and well placed words.  I wanted to keep the air in my lungs and expand my cheeks, until the blue of my eyes ran like paint down my face and into my cheeks.  Curled into a small ball this morning, listening to the house become loud and busy, I closed my eyes and didn't want to face the bright lights but everyone has to wake up and straighten their bodies and walk upright in the fetal position.  Sometimes, the depression gets so bad that I feel crippled and useless.  My muscles flinching at every touch.  My head dragging upon the ground, a fragile and empty box on shoulder who no longer stand up tall.  I am emptied of every imaginative idea or purpose.  I am fueled by nothing, but the urge to sleep and my dreams-my nightmares-are heavy and cruel.  I dream of death.  Of long wooden crosses and strange spiritual scenes.  Knives and cold metal and coffins being placed in the ground.  My coffin landing in the dirt, long and thick.  Of wood and grooves in strange and miraculous places.  A bell hangs just in case I wake up and begin to breathe again.  Quickly, I remember how much I need to treasure the little things.  A warm bath.  The water racing in colorful streams over my scars.  Bubbles of soap with blue and red and pink.  I creep down into the mirrors and clean my eyes out with the burning sticks of glass and the pain is not enough to make me forget.  Slitting the envelope open, I rush by your words and hold onto the good parts-the words that make me feel brand new-I cram what used to be under my bed and allow it to be eaten by the monster that lives under my bed.  I am not really ready to be an adult.  But, I am not a child.  I am stuck in the fog that lies between and caves into the rich, deep and dark soil that is the Earth.  What is left but our youth and the wonders, the discoveries, that we make everyday which transpire through our fingertips into the palms of our hands and reveal themselves in moonlight patches of grass on long summer nights.