A poem found on my work laptop – written and saved in September 2022, less than a month before an unexpected 5-month Medical Leave for mental health reasons

So now they’re calling the crisis “depression” or “anxiety”

By Elle B. Hunter

it gets very dark in here sometimes

a narrator in the deep waterless abyss, an
oracle

ringing out from the loud speakers
one in every corner so you
don't miss a word

seconds upon seconds with no cover from the truth

the facts you can hear even if 
they can't (so they tell you "no, you're not bad,
it's ok,
the wheels are turning in the way intended, 
the biological machine is operating,
he can't get us.")

nothing can save you from what is happening
or will happen
or happened

a horse, ears
alert
eyes open wide
prey

for whatever
-the devil
girl
boy-
needs to eat.

even the trees eat sunshine.