At the age of 12
I am place on the cusp of womanhood
and I learn what it means to grieve.
A war breaks out between mental health and I
and somehow the both of us lose
a bloody battle I never wanted to be a part of.
I fail to understand that I am (still)
just a girl,
and I thrust myself into a world I no longer want to be a part of.
By 18 I have been this way for six years.
The concept of a healthy relationship between my parents and
I never occurs to me until I have been legally dead for seven minutes.
A kilogram of Prozac is pumped from my stomach and
I learn.
Coming back is less like a resurrection
and more like a relapse.
Oxygen rips its way into my chest and I'm still unsure
whether or not I'm grateful for the way it fills me.
Five weeks have passed since then,
And I haven't wanted to die.
But I don't want to die in the same way people don't want to get hit by cars.
I have learnt to survive on the little things.
I survive for the classes I pay nine grand for,
I survive for my friends, my parents,
the girl I loved last week,
the boy I saw last month because
when you're caught in the undertow you learn how to breath underwater
or at least grab at every breath you can.
By now, depression simply a dull ache in my chest.
Familiar and tolerable.
A friend who just doesn't know when to shut up.
YOU ARE READING
Anathema
PoetryMy sexuality and desperation to love myself are constantly at war. Somehow, I always lose
