Eh~

My Sister

A story written by my 15 year old sister:

Shit
Depression, is not a curse. Depression is a gift to death, let me show you. Depression is like a rotten fruit, but unlike a banana, it doesnt bruise, leaving you stunned and disgusted when you bite into it. Depression is wondering if you should get over that bridge, or simply jump off it. Depression is trying to smoke away your cloudy thoughts and drinking until you yourself become a mixed cocktail. Made with 2 parts anxiety and 9 parts depression. We'll call it "The Silly Mirage" and i know it sounds fruity, but i promise you, its the most bitter drink. But hey, whatever it takes to get you drunk, huh? Depression is feeling lonely even in the longest of hugs and the sweetest of kisses. You get used to having the blank stares to match your static gray mind. It matches the radio and the television, but its not like you were paying attention anyways. Everything is background noise when the main screaming in your ear is your own self-hatred. Until you realize that your life is worth less than dark, dirty coal. And dont you dare say how coal is pressurized into diamonds, because ive been smashed so much, i broke into pieces, but never once a rare gem stone. And dont you say coal can start a fire, because my whole being is colder than ice on a cold winter night. Im like a used match. Obviously used and worthless, a flame burnt out in a matter of second, used and then tossed. Another thing overused to add to my collection, along with my esteem and trust and blades and lighters and anything else you might find if you search deep enough in my room. If you searched deep enough into my body. Remove the clothes and youll see a bone ripped apart by giant dogs. Scars, both of healed skin and clotted blood, dashed along my body like a repainted road, over and over. As if i were trying to peel a layer of skin off but couldnt do it all in one sitting. Not like a tiger, or a zebra, but a suicidal mess, each stripe a different story that i know you couldn't sit still long enough to hear through, writing scriptures in silver as they seep out red. You can never hear anything. Hear my screams as they tear through my body, barely escaping out in my sweat and tears. Hear my pleads as they slam out my eyes, like someone trapped in a room they didnt want to be in. Just like my soul in my body. Unwanted like a broken lightbulb, a crumped smudged paper, a smudge on stained glass, a dandelion in a boquet of flowers, a bug in a box of chocolates, and much much more. Im sorry this poem is too long, much like my fucking existance in this world. And just like my life unfortunately, this poem is to be continued.