The Guilty Joyful and the Chronic Depressive Collide

I'm the goopy, garish yolk
cracked over your cast iron.
I turn impossibly bright
as I sizzle and spatter,
based on you.

I'm a crash of crayon
to your tired printer paper,
it seems;
the song that plays games in your silence.

I don't mean for my joy to stand out so bright against
the misery
you can't leave as easily as me -
the suffering you have become
because of mistakes
I've long since forgiven,
but that still chain you in an exhausting reality
like gravity itself.

The intertwine of our lives
means I feel it too,
but I haven't tied knots in myself
as tricky to untangle as you.
I am not as stuck.

This doesn't scare me.
I will always be with you
to help you heal.
I mean it when I say
I am here,
and together we can do what it takes
to make it okay,
at least, to make it safe
and beautiful.
Anything but lonely.

Still, I hope it doesn't hurt
when my body dances
and my limbs swirl
totally unencumbered,
close to flying in these ice skates,
as good as free.

You hold me up as solid as such,
but I pray you are not the same stuff
I'm slicing up with jubilee.