Poetry

Anti-depressant
- Rana Bitar

It is still there.

It is not gone,

but it is behind bars,

jumping in that cage,

up and down

up and down

screeching, banging.

I can still hear it,

and in the corner of my eye,

I see it stretching a clawed arm

from in between the bars.

It is still there.

It is not gone,

but its noise is distant.

It is not climbing

over the flow of my breath.

It is not sticking a fist

in the valves of my heart.

It is not pulling

on the fabric of my lungs,

rolling a ball of cries,

and sticking it in my throat.

It is still there.

It is not gone,

but, at least now,

it is caged

in the background;

at least now,

I can feel my feet

on the ground.

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