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i grew up in a house of whispers and maybe that's why i still can't talk.
i grew up in a house of "hands to yourself" and maybe that's why i still don't like to be touched.
i grew up in a house of "daddy will visit again soon" and maybe that's why i still don't trust anyone.
i grew up in 6 different houses and maybe that's why i still have trouble calling this house a home.
they say "don't make a home out of a person" but i've never been able to make a home out of a house and i'm sick of being homeless
i grew up in a house of held breaths and maybe that's why i still can't breathe.
i grew up in a house of "don't tell the kids at school" and maybe that's why my shoulders are still heavy.
i grew up in a house that was always empty and maybe that's why i'm still lonely.
i grew up in a house of "i'll be home later" and maybe that's why i still can't sleep.
i grew up in a house of "take care of your brother" and maybe that's why i still can't take care of myself.
i grew up in a house of lost photo albums and maybe that's why i still don't like having my picture taken.
i grew up in a house without any "i love you"s and maybe that's why i still don't love myself.
now i'm growing up in a house of "keep your head down" and "don't make him mad" and maybe that's why i haven't been able to look at anyone.
These days run away
like criminals who
Taking with them
all of what I never

This regret remains
fresh just as honey
never ages.
And there's that blood
red stain where my need
for the hurt leaked
onto the floor.

Somewhere beneath
those times and
these years lays
a reason that's fighting
to be understood.

These losses are as
sad as Pluto
losing its status.
And yet I still
believe there's
a masterpiece
somewhere within
all of us
waiting to be
 Mar 2014 certifiednutcase
My heart screams at me
but my battered soul sits huddled in the corner
      telling me that I don't deserve
                                       or happiness
that these things that give me hope
will end up being a mistake
that will lead to even more pain in my life

But I'm tired of being scared
      and denying myself
           all of the good things in life

So I'm jumping into this
      with my eyes open
           and hoping I can survive this one
Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.  

But what they don’t know is that depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,

it’s feeling the blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of  “Oh, look how beautiful the red is” (they always say red is my color).

Depression is lying on your bed for hours on end, salt tracks lining your face like the scars on your ankles, staring at your ceiling tracing patterns in the paint and accepting death in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.

Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.

Depression is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the pain like a gift because you deserve it.

Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking.

Depression is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear, and then telling you to your face that you have no right to cry, as if sadness is a privilege and you’re so pathetic that you don’t deserve it.

Depression is shutting yourself up in your room and hearing your family laughing downstairs because you feel like you can’t be a part of them and learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love

Depression is wanting to take love and your heart and break them into tiny little pieces and throw them into waves, to throw them away

Depression is a foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet, is you when you haven’t broken life in, is seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with smiles reaching their eyes when yours can’t.

Depression is wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”

Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.

Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway and when you close the door out of fear it keeps pounding, possessive, ******, and when you open the door out of anger you shout, “I’M SCARED” to thin air but your voice comes out as a whisper.
My coach made me rewrite the poem again, and this is the result.
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