Depression is a knife stuck in my heart.

Wedged deep in the middle,

handle long gone,

scarred over with ugly red muscle.

It's an old pain,

always there,

always aching, cutting, pressing, twisting

as it whispers, "Don't forget me. Don't ignore me."

(I don't. I never do.)

And I would pull it out except then I would die.

This is a double edged blade-

I can't live with sorrow yet I can't live without it.

Not now, it's years too late,

the blade's fused to me now.

But it's not all bad.

Because at least the knife won't abandon me.

At least it's there,

a constant companion,

a perverse kind of friend,

a sharp kind of comfort.