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

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.

poetry

scars

purple and white and uneven

lines settle on my hips,

like the birds resting on the wire

across the street.

ashamed, hiding for so long

with the shadows in my head–

I had no idea what

to say to them, to justify, to defend,

but they are just birds

and I am just human

and in the end, does it matter?

I am alive, and I have fought monsters

every day of my life and am still

alive to tell the tale.

and these?

these are just reminders of everything

I have lost and everything

I have become

and so I’m going to do what I damn well please

and wear my battle scars

with pride.