“My depression, is not your adjective. it is not your sad sighs into his neck, it is not his arms tucking you to sleep and wiping your tears after a hard day.
It is not your throwaway word when you are sad for a few hours. it is not scars up and down your thighs being gently rubbed, tenderly kissed. it is not being a “sad girl” or an “anxiety queen.” it is not lying on your bedroom floor three in the morning bobbing your head to the sound of melancholic songs. it is not bumping into the beautiful boy at the coffee shop who happens to fall for the girl with bitter black eyes. it is not your typical teenage diary, or romance novel where the lead character is broken enough, just to find someone to glue their cracks back together.
My depression is the devil on my shoulder, the ghost living in my bedroom walls, the last whisper of pain i hear before i fall asleep, if i fall asleep that is. it is the caution tape i wear as a necklace, warning you to stay away because i might just break, and i don’t want you to step on the pieces. don’t even touch them. it is the teeth i break in dreams, the blood i swallow with tears. it is the razor sitting under the mattress, waiting to be touched again. the personal conversations i have alone while looking down the gun barrel, the thought of death that soothes me like a song. it is what sits on the edge of my lap, reminding me. reminding me, that today is another day it will try to control me, and when i push, it pushes back harder, when i pull, it wraps it’s hands around my neck like a noose. when i scream, it’s all in my head. every move i make, it wishes i were dead.”
It is not your throwaway word when you are sad for a few hours. it is not scars up and down your thighs being gently rubbed, tenderly kissed. it is not being a “sad girl” or an “anxiety queen.” it is not lying on your bedroom floor three in the morning bobbing your head to the sound of melancholic songs. it is not bumping into the beautiful boy at the coffee shop who happens to fall for the girl with bitter black eyes. it is not your typical teenage diary, or romance novel where the lead character is broken enough, just to find someone to glue their cracks back together.
My depression is the devil on my shoulder, the ghost living in my bedroom walls, the last whisper of pain i hear before i fall asleep, if i fall asleep that is. it is the caution tape i wear as a necklace, warning you to stay away because i might just break, and i don’t want you to step on the pieces. don’t even touch them. it is the teeth i break in dreams, the blood i swallow with tears. it is the razor sitting under the mattress, waiting to be touched again. the personal conversations i have alone while looking down the gun barrel, the thought of death that soothes me like a song. it is what sits on the edge of my lap, reminding me. reminding me, that today is another day it will try to control me, and when i push, it pushes back harder, when i pull, it wraps it’s hands around my neck like a noose. when i scream, it’s all in my head. every move i make, it wishes i were dead.”
— i.c
