He came so quietly that at first, I hadnt even noticed he was there.
But then he put his hand on my shoulder, and my body became colder than I was stiff; I was ice.
He whipsered in a pitch so high that it hurt, yet still low enough that it was inaudible- a sort of white noise.
What he said are likely things I am not capable of imagining, and I honestly dont even know where I would begin.
However, I do know that what ever he said...
It was dark, it was consuming, and it IS reminant.
That feeling of hopeless- of emptiness...
It hasnt left, and most days I wonder if it ever will.
When it first happened everyone asked what was wrong.
And so I told them: 'its just something that he said.'
When they asked who I realized they didn't see him.
And thats the problem- they still don't.
They dont see his dark figure- his bony hand on my shoulder.
They dont see him pulling me closer to the edge.
They don't see him- they dont see depression.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem