i remember
when i was young
happiness felt like looking through a window pane
so easy to see
so hard to obtain
so i'd put my hand against the cold glass
and try to touch something that i couldn't grasp
it was last year when i was diagnosed with depression
a mental illness
my father said it was all in my head
which he also said about the monsters under my bed
but if they're all just make believe
then how are they suffocating me?
the sky always looked so blue
and the clouds seemed to dance
so why is it every time i joined them
i felt like a raincloud
with the way people gave me a sideways glance
as if they could blame the bad weather on me
because depression was the rain and i was a sea
i felt like a black splotch on a white page
and the perfectionists claimed it was an outrage
they tried coloring me every color to make me seem happy
they twisted my words so people were clapping
but it didn't change who i really am
because i am still a mistake
i was the weed in a garden full of flowers
the presence that was so unwanted
people would pull me from my roots
and crush me under their boots
and repeat the process every time i'd grow back
and it's days like these
where i feel more like a list of symptoms on the side of a bottle
than a person with feelings
that doctors love to coddle
and everyone's screaming i'm just being overdramatic
because this wound isn't one you can cover with some plastic
