Strange Poetry

If There Was Would You Take It?

Title: I once told my therapist I wished there was a pill to make the memories go away, And she replied 'If there was, would you take it?'


Depression is the light of a flame as you hold your hand over the fire waiting for a pain that couldn't be worse than the way you felt watching her walk away all those years ago.

Depression is the limp in your step. The force that moves your body up the stairs and over that ledge.

A gene passed down from parent to parent like God is playing a twisted game of mouse trap watching the ball fall waiting to see who cracks first.

Depression is turning out the lights in the bathroom so you can't see yourself in the reflection.

It is lying on your bed for hours on end; salt tracks lining your face like the scars imprinted on your skin; looking up at the stars tracing patterns in the paint and accepting death as an option in a life where there is a hole in your chest and your last breath is a reward.

Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing them with scars.

Cutting on your hips not your wrists because you're scared of who will see but you so desperately need to feel the pain and hope the voices go away.

Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn't yours because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.

Depression is wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little envelopes and hand them to people more deserving but still wishing you could keep them for yourself.

Depression is the security blanket keeping me safe because sadness is all I know. Depression is the letter I keep under my bed for when I need it. Depression is my comfort.