My cousin’s hair was the shade
of eggshells, or snow
on a winter afternoon. Skin

pale porcelain under long
sleeve, hoodies and sweatshirts, jeans
tight on thighs, tense.

Trace of blood peeks
from under her sleeves.
Strawberry syrup, sweet nectar

dripping from pancake skin. Hot
like the burns from the radiator
she hugged as a child

thinking a warm friend.
Or the bug bite, poisonous
from a friendly looking spider:

hours in the hospital,
followed by angry car rides
to homes that weren't.

She didn't catch fire, she was
flames, melting
girl known for naked nails,

long legs under black jeans
and a hoodie in July. She slept
the days away in her room.

Stuffed teddy bear, razor
blades, no longer hidden
out of sight. There was

no one there to see.
For weeks she wasn't
seen, a putrid smell resulting.

Her bamboo plant left
wilting in the kitchen.
Spiders watch from far corners.

Ask me,
Ask me now daddy.
What I want to do when I grow up.
I want to be happy.
No, not happy
I want to be happiness.
I want to be joy and cheer and admiration
Confidence and peace and optimism

I don’t want to be like others, no, I want to be love.
The smile that comes across your face when they say your name,
The look that makes your heart skip a beat,
The song that makes you rethink every second you spent together.
I don’t wanna be the poem, I wanna be the emotion behind it,
Not the first kiss, let me be the nerves,
Not the dance, let me be the excitement,
Not the Officiant, let me be the vows.

When I grow up, I don’t wanna be a doctor mommy.
I want to be the feeling when someone’s told there’s a cure,
Or when a parent finds out their child will live to be a teenager,
Or maybe I want to be 3 in the morning when a mother holds her child for the first time.

I want to be affection and adoration and passion
Oh, I want to be passion.
Let me be passion.
So that you cannot do without me, because nothing without me has meaning.
So that when you are playing the final strain or scoring the winning goal,
Or writing the last chapter or finishing the last paint stroke,
You will think of me.

Maybe I’ll be allegiance or devotion or respect.
I won’t be the soldier, I’ll be the loyalty.
Or the surprise in a child's heart when their dad comes home early,
Maybe I’ll be the feeling when a father meets his baby for the first time,
And the child already knows his name.

I want to be piety and faith and worship.
I don’t want to be the pastor, I’ll be the lesson.
Maybe I’ll be the obligation behind the first baptism or first communion.
Maybe I’ll be the words when someone so low is told someone loves them.
I’ll be the salvation of the gospel,
The redemption to the guilty,
The forgiveness to the sinners.

When I grow up,

I want to be the opposite of sorrow,
The antonym of misery,
The reverse of fear,
The contradiction of rejection,
The antithesis of disappointment,
The inverse of insecurity,
I want to be the alleviation of anxiety,
The ease of pain,

When I grow up,
I want to be happy.

I dig the guilt out of my rib cage with my fingers and
embrace it.

Your scent in my bed
your voice in my head
your touch on my skin
the taste of your sin
all haunting me
until I see you again

Living in a world of confusion
confusing words of transfusion
transfused, with a simple conclusion
conclusive to living a delusion

it's a story of a new creation
created out of a liars frustration
frustrated without a new translation
translating to a new declaration

It must be just like an addiction
addicted to a life of fiction
fictional words, then a new depiction
depicting your contradiction

I just have to be honest with you right here, right now, and it’s not going to be nice. Or easy, for that matter.

I hate you.

I hate how you cling to my shoulders, demanding my attention when I’m trying to do normal college girl things. Like when you insist on riding along when I go out with my friends, reminding me every five minutes that you think I’m ugly and worthless. I hate how you cling to my neck, making my entire back and my shoulders physically fatigued. I hate how you read too far into situations, convincing me that people think I’m weird or stupid. I hate it when you tell me to cut my hips because feeling physical pain is better than feeling nothing at all. I hate that you tell me that after I cut, the scars are ugly, so I’d best never do it where people can see them. I hate it when you tell me that I’m weak for giving in, but then convince me to give in yet again. I hate the stress headaches you give me from telling me all of these things. I hate how at the end of the night, you make me think about all of my mistakes during the day, keeping me awake until two. I hate how you suggest I do everyone a favor and just **** myself. I hate how you give me nightmares about my greatest fears becoming a reality. I hate how you sit on my chest in the mornings, making it nearly impossible for me to drag my aching, weary body to the shower to wash your black fingerprints away from my neck.

But let me make this quite clear to you:

You do not own me.

I may be stuck with you, and it may be a daily struggle for me to do normal things, but you do not control my life.

Sometimes I wish other people would understand what it’s like for me. I wish they could see your black, blobby figure hanging on my back. I wish they could see the knots in my shoulders that have your fingerprints all over them.

I wish they didn’t see you as a lie.

You are very real.

Mental illness is something society frowns upon, did you know that? You are the reason that I have to lie and say that I’m ‘just tired’ or I ‘am a little bit sick,’ when my physical appearance portrays my mental turmoil. If I told them the truth about you, I’d be treated as one of two things:

1.      Crazy
Or
2.      A liar.

So I hope you understand my dilemma, Depression. I hope you understand why I resent you so very much. I hope for my sake, and for everyone who cares about me, that you will not break me down to the point of taking my own life.

I hate you, Depression.

But that’s okay, because as long as I hate you…

You don’t own me.


Sincerely,

Sarina Kay Cassell