lucie winborne

 

 

Depression


You can call it clinical
and study it like a chemical

but I call it a train you didnít
buy a ticket for. Everyone rides
at least once, some have a return pass.

Outside the closed windows
faces blur by with
mouths of encouragement

but their words are flattened pennies
on the tracks.

Blame my induction
on timing or bad genes

the broken circuitry of my brain
on too much sugar in my youth

But stop your panaceas in your throat
before I drown them like kittens.

Better you should punch a hole in my ticket,
hand it back. Say,
Ride over.

 

Lucie Winborne is an administrative assistant and occasional poet/fiction writer in Central Florida. Some of her work has appeared in Avocet, the Aurorean, Lucid Moon, the Orlando Sentinel and Shemom, as well as the anthology Chick Ink: 40 Stories of Women and Their Tattoos.

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