On Depression (Part One)

She does not always come tattered, smelling of gutter, pathetic and miserable,

is not always tears on a pillow, smeared mascara, and empty tubs of ice cream

like you’d expect.

Sometimes she slinks in dressed to the nines

with the click-clack of heel and a Vegas-watt smile,

shows up warm as wine when everything

is going right.

You would think her prickly, a bad rash,

a bra two sizes too small, an erection at church.

But she is often as soothing as a blanket,

effortless as a shadow.

She will suffocate you and call it hug,

take lazy and call it rest,

and set impossible standards

so that you may always know 
failure.

She does not knock politely.

She will combat boot stomp into your chest

until it is a cave where a heart used to be,

a cave you once convinced yourself a tunnel,

a thing with light, 
with an end.

She makes smiling feel like work, steals the desire to want to,

thrives even when you know better,

when you have tools,

have support.

She peeks behind the post-it notes all over the house that remind

“you are enough” and “everything will be okay.”

She will give you a phantom life,

something you only used to feel.

She will make you immune to joy and numbed with fear,

the fear that all those despicable lies you’ve told yourself are true,

(“You’re a burden, not worth remembering.

You make too many mistakes, carry too much baggage.”)

true because you can never seem to stick to anything

that’s good for you.

Sometimes she is the bang of a two-year-old drum pot band,

other times she is pin drop.

Though what she never seems to be

is needle in the haystack.

She might hide 
between the lines, beat beneath the floorboards,

hide like belly fat behind a pillow.

But she lives in the small ways you express shame

without even realizing it.

And yet you find yourself tapping the hollow of your elbow

fiending for her to stay,

because even though you know it's fucked up,

she's the closest thing to home you've got.

So you keep your home like you keep your life—an organized mess,

pile emotions into projects to take care of…one day.

keep guilt 
neat in the corner of the room with the perfectly lined up free weights

and worry you’ll never free yourself

from the weight of it.

Afraid you’ll always live on autopilot

with a fear of flying.

IG: @daydreamifications