If depression were a month,

it would be March. The sky

is a grayscale Van Gogh, turbulent, bled

of color. The light

hurts the eyes. The ceaselessness

wounds the soul. 31 days

drag

over shrapnel

of dreams

of other months.

I wrote this draft as part of National Poetry Writing Month. I hope to collect these works for a mixed media/writing piece I am working on entitled Love Letters to My Brother in Prison.