My depression
is an exposed ribcage
and I drape hope
like a secondhand
jean jacket upon my shoulders.
But, my torso
is still open,
still exposed
with my ribs
stark white teeth
trying to bend
into another smile.
All I can do
is to find solace in words.
Tear them out of used dictionaries
and warp them into flowers.
I turn each syllable
until every sentence is delicate
and blooms from shredded pages.
I layer each piece
between the gaps of my ribcage smile;
stack the stems of my experiences
into layers of pain, joy, and relatability.
I let them blossom from chest
and I make a garden within my depression,
so I can regrow my heart, my happiness
and my life again.
Poetic Trials 