I'll hold your hand and guide you in this eternity we call

Depression.

Like a spaghetti strand the length of highways,

Soft and brittle and weak and limbless,

The neverending struggle to push it all down within the pits of your stomach

Proves to be most

Difficult.

"I am an eater,"

You attempt to utter, then scream and shout but

Your attempts fall short.

You're full.

The spaghetti's stuck between your molars and incisors,

Wrapped your tongue like a lasso,

Left you breathless,

Fighting,

Kicking,

Dying.

And the damn strand still hasn't ended.

You wrap your bony fingers around your neck, beg

For some form of release,

For some internal force to arise and leave you peaceful and happy but

Somehow, you're still persistent.

You still want to see the strand to the end.

You still want to find an answer to eternity even though

Infinity has no end.

You're blinded in your own despair and curiosity

Until you finally forgot:

You could've always bitten it off.