I. depression as the contained

The white ceiling above my bed is swirling
Into flowers and faces. I should probably look away
But looking away means acknowledging the swelling
Of my abdomen and that means acknowledging
The advice I’ve ignored—to go for brisk walks
To eat a tablespoon of hot sauce
To pray for the faith to be restored,
As if I haven’t already prayed till I cried as if
That isn’t why I’m too drained to do much else
To roll over, to press my feet into the stirrups,
To push. Who am I if not pregnant
With stagnancy and rot? Is there anything else?
This burning like nausea, this deep squeezing
Instinct to escape flooding my dirty sheets—
God it’s stuck
Like a seed in my teeth
An eyelash in my eye
A tumor on my abdominal wall, God
Cut me open.

II. depression as the container

It’s warm in here but warm like stale water
And stale body heat, trapped for some time
Comfortable, familiar as unwashed hair
Dried sweat bone cavern I’ve swelled to fill.
The umbilical noose makes to meet my throat, but
God is real because now the water shatters and drains
Like I’ve asked for nine months and I’m sucked from the valley
To the riverbed, the esophagus, dried contracting choking
On my answered prayers expelling the foreign that’s become
So familiar I raise my fists to beat on the door of release.
I want to wear light as a crown
I want fresh air on my skin I want to scream
And be heard.

– Bekah Black