poetry

low

I made the bed at 3 PM

I haven’t cleaned in weeks

I don’t know what I eat these days

I don’t know if I sleep

My laundry’s piled on my desk

And work litters the floor

I’ve lost the energy to live

But don’t care anymore

The world is pressing through the walls

I can’t get out of bed

I don’t want to be useless, but

I can’t escape my head

A day, a week, a month goes by

It all blurs into one

I fall behind, but guess it’s fine

There’s nothing to be done

Maybe I should worry that

The nightmares have come back

Or that I make myself feel sick

Or my life is not on track

But instead I’m tired

So I think I’ll close my eyes

Maybe when I open them

Everything will look alright.

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poetry

prompt: depression is…

depression is

waking up more tired

than you fell asleep,

snapping at people

too close on the sidewalks,

fingers caked with mud

and dirty floors

that it would take too

much effort

to clean.

depression is

words like weights

that fall with dull thuds

at my feet, and

quiet music and

being too little

to hold.

depression is forgetting

who you are

and wishing you could

sleep away who

you were

because you’re not sure

if you’ll ever be

anyone

again.

depression is

breaking and

falling and

lying facedown and

wondering what it means

that the world keeps on spinning

and sometimes I forget

that depression is also

getting back up

again.

poetry

sleep

i would say i long for

nothing but sleep

but this would be a lie; i long for

dreamless sleep

uninterrupted sleep

restful sleep

deep sleep

the kind of sleep that

you wake up from and

feel well rested afterwards.

this sleep is

impossible

for me; this sleep

is drugs and broken

eyes and shadows

that pull from behind

each step like

weights;

this sleep

drags

and refuses to be

forgotten or left

behind; it clings

desperately to my ankles

and refuses to be

shaken off.

poetry

sorry.

“how’ve you been?”

i don’t really know.

sorry.

“are you doing okay?”

no.

sorry.

“what’ve you been up to?”

worrying, picking my skin,

wishing i were dead,

skipping meals.

sorry.

“are you good?”

not really;

i’m generally a

pretty shitty

person.

sorry.

sorry that i couldn’t be

fine

and that i’m an inconvenience

and a burden.

i just want to

be alright and

instead i’m shutting down.

don’t ask me how i am

because i can’t lie

right now.