If... Would it? a Poetry

If depression had teeth
It would be tiny little knives
Meant to pierce
Meant to tear
You and me, and that boy on the street
Sometimes skipping a fight
Sometimes screaming in fright
And not knowing that we are the same.
If depression had a smell
It would be a scent of smoke
Meant to choke
Meant to cloak
You and me, and that girl in the store
Counting dimes
Counting twice
Not enough
Unware of me and you.
If depression just knew
Would it talk?
Would it silently wait on the porch?
Would it drink stinky scotch in a welcome of feverish days?
Would it name you a fail?
Would it tell you, don’t dare?
Or would it just stay?
Silently saying ‘okay’
When it looks like the end of the world?