Raw Emotions

Dry skin

Depression made me poetic.
Or poetic tendencies made me depressed, I forget which way round they arranged my mind.
Their mouths forming around the words "you don't know when to stop."
Their tongues curling around the sentence "if only you weren't so dramatic, then you would be feeling better."
I think people forget this about me, so I shall say it again, this time in words so you hear me loud and clear.
I do not use poetry to romanticise my illness,
It clings to me like wet clothing in a river, send me out to sea and I will drown.
I knew something was wrong when i looked at my hand, concerned at the whitish layer surrounding the inside of a hole I'd picked into my knuckle.
My fingers worked into my flesh until I bled without consent, if I wanted this then I think my counsellor would have raised an alarm bell by now.
I later found out that the white later was actually soft tissue covering my bones, so it probably wasn't a good idea to gouge that out.
I can pick up hot plates in my fingers because the nerves are completely fucked, frayed like the edges of my mind-
Think of me like a rug. People come and go, their feet pressing into my body and I offer a soft ground to tread upon.
If I wanted to romanticise my illnesses then I would talk about the sweet taste of blood, the sickly silver sheen of what digs into my body, the harsh corners of my mirror as it jab into my soft sides.
I would tell you how dancing in the rain feels like heaven because I am at one with the sky.
I am afraid of the ocean because it reminds me of the insides of my mind, my love is deeper than the underwater caverns that stretch this earth, the ocean reminds me of myself and so i stay away from it and play dead.
Do not force me to romanticise my illness.
Of course I fell in love with depression.
How could I not?
It's the most interesting part about me.
And one day it will fade.
And i will be left with an abrupt endin-