Eurydice Depressed

So this is hell—like tasteless lemonade.
Unraveling the sugar shell, each shade…
well…everybody’s boring as cement.
But I’m not bitter—I’m dull too. The scent
of water’s in the air. Our talk’s clichéd.
We all play dead. The flowers are decayed.
If I could be a gazelle, afraid…or filleted
in bright hellfire…how my thoughts ferment
so! This is hell

because my mind won’t change it. Synapse frayed,
eye coins spent, my mind will fade and fade.
I’m like a butter knife and I’m hell bent
on apathy…even his last look meant
nothing—another feckless promenade.
So…this is hell.

Jaimee Hills