Underground

It feels like going underground, she said.
Like a bunch of cotton balls stuffed in your head.
Kind of like a cold from hell.
And it hurts to breath.

So I’m not going
to that frigid land of depression
where every day
dons another suit of led
zipped tight around clammy skin.

I’ll face my grief-
look it in the eye
up close and personal
knife in hand
slashing at long tentacles
tied to the deep dark depths

of mixed up emotion,
where lies live and love dies.
Where hope diminishes
with every wretched breath.

I want to laugh and cry
with reckless abandon
and thank god for every day
Niko was here.