by Julia Macpherson
This poem has been sent to me by Julia Macpherson’s mother. Julia, who sadly died, wrote this powerful poem whilst suffering from depression.
You think it is contagious, don’t you?
That is why you won’t catch my dull eye
for fear a spark of despondency will set light
to your carefully-combed hair,
if you touch my face, the dread may spread
from my drawn expression to your smug one
The shabby bleakness of my clothes could,
God forbid, create wrinkles in your smooth attire
It is possible the persistent quiver in my limbs
affects your posture, giving your stance a slight stoop
Do you honestly think I need putting into isolation,
when I have accomplished that for myself?