I don’t remember how it started, but if I did
I would imagine it to be like a fog
twisting and pulsating within
the confinements of my brain
Of dust smudged between “I’m tired” and
"I’ve had just about enough of this."
pressing against the inside of my skull,
consuming every happy thought my brain
saw fit to grace me with.
It didn’t just stop there but spread
Washing over my spine and pouring
into my veins like a drug.
It turned my food, into oil for the flames
my appetite, a compilation of ash and soot
and the act eating a chore
I just couldn’t sit through.
I lay awake at night.
My body a tomb stone wedged
into tthe earth of my mattress
sheets, delicate foiliage and my spirit
forever trapped in a place that never saw
the light of day.
A word in which those of us who actually have it
never speak aloud.
is for those who have lost a loved one
for those, who have been raped
for those, who have faced the lowest level of hell
and barely made it out alive
Not for an eighteen year old facing her first semester of college
and hoping that with every rise of the sun
she will care enough about herself to
crawl out of bed.
They’re damn right depression hurts,
but they don’t tell you that it is sly and understanding
that it makes excuses
that it turns an exceptional human being into a phantom
walking amongst the living
touched by nothing and no one.
An infection of the mind, body, and spirit that festers and bleeds,
leaving nothing in its wake but suffering.
Put that into the DSM.