Ingested

(yet another poem about depression)

Emptiness overwhelms me.
I feel hollow,
like a bag of crisps all puffed up
only to be revealed as
nothing but a bag of air.
Or when you bake a quiche
and it deflates after setting.
It still tastes alright
but the bravado is gone.

The essence of me has gone —
deep into hiding, I suppose.
How can you carry on putting
one foot in front of the other
when the concept of movement
causes you physical pain?
How can you carry on eating
breakfast, lunch, dinner
when the thought of food
makes you want to be sick?
My last question is:
how can you carry on living
taking each day as it comes
when the idea of survival
is not one that you possess?

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