Him....
He was sunshine and rainbows, the calm after the storm.
he was the brightest days after the darkest night's.
He was mourning doves in the crisp summer morning air, singing melodies I loved to hear.
He was the sweet coffee I drank while watching the sunrise, he warmed me inside and filled me with a dose of happiness.
He was like chocolate. I craved him as much as I craved sweets as a child, I wanted him every day.
He was the sight from the top of a mountain, beautiful.... he took my breath away and filled me with adrenaline and contentment.
He was the changes during the seasons, with every side I saw I loved him more.
He was light, like a breeze between the tallest trees.
he was the trees. He held so much life, with holes inside of his body for everything he loved, he was home.
He was the city I lived in, I knew every street, every turn, He was a map I had memorized.
He was my home.

Until he wasn't.....

He is a hurricane, the eye of the storm. the rain it pours like the tears pour from my eyes.
He is the clouds in the sky on the darkest days.
He is the silent echo in the dewy morning winter air, there is an eerie feeling that he leaves me with.
He is the bitter taste, the burnt tongue as I struggle to swallow the scorching black coffee, he doesn't fill me the same.
He is the green vegetables I hated as a child but I knew I needed to grow, to thrive, to live.
He is the sight of an airplane in the sky while standing on the ground, he makes me feel so small.
He is the seasons in the arctic, always so cold. I trudged through the ice, the snow, I ran as fast as I could while the cold air burned my lungs, I heaved and gasped while falling to my knees.
He is the humidity in the southern states on a hot summer day, the air so thick and smoggy it makes you want to crawl out of your skin, he doesn't flow the same way.
He is no longer a tree, rather now the proof of one that once lived. He no longer holds a hole inside his body for me. He's now soil compact so hard you'd swear it was concrete, but a piece of his root still lives and he is now building a new home for someone else.
His need for practice of deforestation was perfectly executed on me.
He is a foreign city I've never been to, he is now a map I get lost trying to understand stand.
He is no longer my home and I,
I am lost..

Him, it was always about him.

Perfect. By: Hannah Ostenberg

Puffed out cheeks, sunken eyes, raw throat, salty tears that run down my dry skin,
I am perfect.
Dry thin brittle hair, nails that are chipping away, Bruises litter my paper thin skin,
I am perfect.
Thigh gap of an inch and a half, Concaved stomach, hip bones sharp like glass, ribs so prominent that when my thin cold fingers run over them feeling every dip between, they could be strummed like a one of a kind vintage guitar making a sad melody,
I am perfect.
Heavy chest, Short breath, Numb limbs, Cold skin,To weak to get out of bed,
I am perfect.
Make up painted face, fake smiles, Daily lies, “I’m not hungry, I already ate, I’m ok, I‘m fine, I‘m just tired”  
I am perfect.
I am perfect,
I am prefect, Perfect at lying.
I am perfect.
I am perfect, Perfect at dying
I am perfect.
I am perfect, I am perfectly killing myself, but to the outside, to society, I’m just….
Perfect.
By: Hannah Ostenberg

Dear depression,
I don't question you anymore, I don't question, why me? Why I am sad today? I don't question why you make me push everyone away, or how you came about finding me.
I now turn to you for comfort because you're all I know, you're the only thing that hasn't left me, hasn't let me down. You're always here to remind me that I'm alone, and not to trust. Like an old friend, I find comfort in your arms while I'm lying In bed at 2 in the afternoon, the time I tell everyone I am busy.
Your embrace smothers me so beautifully, you make me see the world in a different light, black and white is what I live in, I see the world for what it is. Hell.
Dear Depression,
Because of you I stopped looking for monsters and demons underneath my bed and Inside my closet, I now see them in mirrors and when I close my eyes, I hear them as they demand attention in the silence of my room, they are screaming, pleading to be heard, like lost souls in the firey depths of hell trying to escape from the devil. It's agonizing really but I find comfort and live In contentment as it all I've known for so long.
Dear depression,
I sometimes think I can be happy, that I am happy. But my happy is, stepping on the scale and seeing the number go down, my happy is looking in the mirror and thinking "Wow, you don't look fat today", my happy is lying in bed all day and managing to actually get an hour of sleep. My happy is feeling like I want to exist, that I do exist and not feeling like I want to disappear, but then I see people around me, with real smiles on their faces and laughs that aren't forced, and I question if I've ever really known happiness.
Dear depression,
You have made me an excellent actor, with a make up painted face, a fake smile and a forced laugh, I play the best charade of happy. as long as I hide my eyes and cover my scars, people are blind to my reality, although I think they still would be if they saw every flaw you've left with me, because they say ignorance is bliss, I say it's blindeness. And your blind to what you don't want to see, and no one wants to see the reality of a hollow body, it's like I'm already gone, brain dead but my heart still beats, waiting to pull the plug, waiting to pull me from my life line.
Dear depression,
You make me feel crazy, I'm at war with myself. a game of Russian roulette, and my head is the battlefield. A constant war is raging on, it's like I'm standing on the shore line get ****** in by the tide, drowning and sinking I struggle until I realize I never really learned how to swim, I always just stayed afloat.
Dear depression,
I now realize there's no winning this game of Russian roulette without killing myself, so In the end you will always be my bestfriend, because I don't know if it makes me strong or if it makes me weak, but I can't pull my plug, so I'll remain brain dead In the comfort of your smothering arms at 2 in the afternoon, the time when I tell everyone I'm busy.
By: Hannah Ostenber