If my depression were human, like myself, it would possess no gender.
Astonishingly impatient, it would easily upset;
Every little detail, from meal times to dress,
Could trigger a hate-storm of words and fists
Plummeting down upon my body, its own little punching bag.

If my depression were human,
it would adhere to my side without consent
Mirroring that bi-polar, abusive “relative”
A step-mother with clenching claws much too close to my neck one minute
Then handing over claims of caring and loving me the next.
I am forced to face hell whenever it visits,
But if gone for too long,
I begin to miss its presence.

And if my depression were human, it would live restlessly.
Through exercise it could relax a while, but
with its unruly schedule, the time may never surface.
It tries to sleep often and I try my best to assist
--tea and music to calm the mind--
but most often insomnia
leaves it beside me for hours, burning on and on
this flame eating at my insides:
A voice I cannot ignore.
The lack of sleep driving its nerves and emotions
On even less stable ground.
Sleeping pills no longer work to calm its overactive mind
And this throat-burning ***** works for only a few hours
Sitting in the shadows with only the bottle to numb the pain
For us both.

If my depression were human,
it would force its way between myself and others,
destroying every potential relationship,
friendship and otherwise,
before even a chance at an emotional connection arises;
driving even the most persistent ones to give up in exhaustion.
I would live alone with it
And it with me
It would tell me that it loves me, but turn
And stab at my wrists
At my arms
At my legs
Shedding blood and claiming that
That would prove my devotion.

If my depression were human,
life would not be life,
I would not be me.
Eventually I could no longer hide behind a fabricated smile:
to pretend would pain my damaged mind past its tolerance
and my body would begin to lose hope as well.
I could try to run away,
with substances or therapy,
but the effects only fade and leave me alone
with it
Once more.

And unfortunately,
Depression is human.
A parasitic one
Living in and draining the mind of its host.
Slowly killing every emotion,
Until even pain loses its effects.
Dominating relationship after relationship.
Birthing 350 million loners.
Ending 350 million lives,
Whether literally, or emotionally.

Those who survive and learn to file it away
may never know themselves again.
Forced to worship pills that eat their true selves,
all for this demonic being
that leaves them numb,
cold,
and empty.


*As I stand now, face to face
with my own demons,
no longer lurking in the shadows,
I realize
I have lost the war,
as my throat counts the blue bullets
leading to my sanity.

The solo road takes hold. I don't know where it goes, but where it goes I go.
A midnight’s drive under a sky full of clouds, blocking the moonlight.
Only the glimpse of a shimmering star guides my way, but to what I do not know.
A night of indifference, just going where this winding road takes me, but
I can barely see that shining star through clouds of hesitation.
The road is a one lane highway to a destination unknown
the fog is so dense it is like a layer of blankets used to hide the fears of a child in the dark.
At this point I wonder if it can hide my fears as well.
Do I even want to hide from these fears at all or should I stand up to the inevitable?
My engine’s sputtering, stalling, my car’s running out of gas and I feel like I just might crash.
I put my foot to the gas and hope that I wont fly through the glass and end up with my car smashed, because this car is my only way off this **** road in the first place.
I see no headlights coming my way even though I pray that one day I will see a light at the end of this godforsaken road but the day isn't today.
Some days I pray that I will lay on the road face down
with a trail of my essence turning the road red with release
but other days I carry on like it was my job to mindlessly keep both of my hands on the steering wheel and hope that at the end of this road, there’s an exit sign,
and that all I need’s a little more time.
Because night after night, my hands grip the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white as the fog that clouds my vision day after day.
My sighs echo down this ever growing street, every twist and turn feels like another reason
to unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door because
I’m going 85 in a 50 and I can’t even see my own headlights on the road
my vision is blurred and my mind is as foggy as the road I drive on.
Every now and again I wonder what the point is
I can barely remember the day I started driving, it was so long ago
and I pray for the day when I can wash this fog away in rain,
that I’ll find an exit and take it.

(Inspired by Ethan Smith's poem of the same title.)

You’ve taken so many different pieces
of others’ personalities
and put them together to form me
that I don’t even know who the real me is anymore…
Let alone knowing that I am still partially you,
as much as I hate it,
I have to recognise it…
and what’s more
As much as I hate it,
I don’t hate you
don’t hate the way you still bore a hole
into my heart,
Remember that.
Sarah…
I haven’t said your name in so long
because I’ve spent years trying to convince everyone-
myself included-
that you were gone,
that you are nothing but a distant, fallacious,
distorted memory,
that the thought of you drowns out my reality
and leaves me shaking and broken
and that at the same time,
I haven’t changed a ******* thing about myself,
but we both know that
that’s complete *******.
We are two completely different people,
you made me feel like a prisoner within myself,
but I suppose you were only doing
what you thought needed to do
to survive.
It’s a shame it didn’t work,
I’m sorry, that we ran out of time.
When grandma said her baby girl had died,
that the light had gone from her eyes
she was wrong,
I told her so
but she’d be incorrect to assume that you
are still living inside of me,
instead you are ticking inside of me,
ticking like a bomb waiting to explode,
Sarah.
The name sounds foreign
your eyes are terrifying me
your old friends are boring the hell out of me;
your voice is one I don’t recognise.
Hell, I barely recognise myself anymore
and I guess I have you to thank for that
But remember
as much as I hate the fact
that you still exist inside of me…
I have to recognise that
I can’t hate someone who was me for so long.

When he tells you he loves you and that you mean the world to him, dont believe him. Tell him that cliche phrase "actions speak louder than words." Because in all reality, it's the truth. He needs to prove it. He needs to show you just how much you mean to him. Whether it's driving to your house at 2 a.m. to hug you and tell you he was thinking about you, or even just a late night phone call. If he doesn't kiss you and tell you that his stomach burns with passion and he needs more, or even just simply pull you closer, kissing you more, he doesn't love you. He shouldn't get tired of your touch. If he can't sit in a room with you in pajamas and your hair up, with no make up on, just watching a movie or discussing life, he doesn't love you. He needs to be able to show his feelings without having to feel you physically. If he can't look at you and smile because you're smiling, he doesn't love you. He should adore every last piece of you and not want anything else. He needs to portray his love to you in more than one way, and you shouldn't settle for any less than that.