my mother told me that you can't cure depression;
that taking pills won't fix me,
and taking six instead of the prescribed two
definitely wasn't going to speed up the process.
but i met a boy who tasted better than prozac.
he made it easier to be out of bed.
he kissed me like i was alive,
like i wasn't empty,
like maybe there was something left inside of me.
he made my bones ache less when he touched me.
he made it okay.
when my world was crashing down around me,
he picked up all the pieces.
when i stopped breathing and tried to tear open my wrists
to find the last little bits of happiness in my viens,
he was there to lace me back together.
but he left.
i haven't slept in three days.
my mother was right.
YOU ARE READING
Motivation.
Poetryhey, stop scrolling. everyone who is reading this: I'm so glad you're alive, I'm so fucking proud of you. you are loved. don't give up, we're almost there. you are going to make it. ♛
