Blackberry Thistles ✓

01 | the illusion of happiness

Her laughter came and went
in the icy cold depths of July.
The winter's harsh spell engulfing
her into a melancholic haze of
cherry wine and bitter confessions.

This state was her guilty pleasure.
She wore a fake persona well of course.
No one could wear the facade of amiable
wonder quite like she did.

She secretly loathed alcohol.
The taste left a longing of more to be desired,
It left her numb; not like how your feet
grow numb when seeping chills attack with time,
but the type of numb that manifests itself
into the interior of your mind.

It rots and poisons thoughts, tiny pinpricks
from icy tendrils turn the peaceful quiet
into the unsettling unknown.

She loathed hostile chatters filled with
malicious intent. Her mind turning every
feasible sentence into a whispering insult
to her own self-worth.

She hated her broken mind most of all.
Her depression was a constant uphill battle.
A battle against her own lack of better judgement.
It was like every step she took to fix herself,
her mind brought about chaos and resurfaced
insecurities previously forgotten; two steps back.

Her hair was too awkwardly framed
around her face, crooked teeth slightly protruding
further into her lips the longer she was fixated
to the mirror. Nothing a daily dose of happiness
pills couldn't fix. They fixed everything these days,
except for the one thing she needed them to.
The thing she loathed most of all.

Her mind.