Love. Love is so much. Love can be that hug you get at just the right moment. Love can be the song she showed you. Love can be the first time you two had *** on the bathroom floor. Love can be an object.

Love is the sound of a pen writing and typewriter clicks. Love is the sound of keypad clicks because you know that means they're typing something just for you. Love is playlist after playlist. Love is the sound of knitting needles going back and forth and back and forth because she's knitting the scarf for you. Love is the sound of the perfume/cologne bottle spritzing. Love is the sound of pottery. Love is the sound of comforting words. Love is the sound of confessions late at night. Love is the sound of hang-up buttons and cars starting up. Love is.

Love is the feeling of the universe and stars moving to my brain stem and *******. Love is the feeling of you kissing my lips and moving slowly until you're at my collarbone. Love is the feeling of you moving my fingers to match yours. The feeling of poetry being written about me. The feeling of the zoo and butterflies, and even the robin outside moving around in my stomach because that's how you make me feel. Love is.

Love is the sight of you in the red dress that I bought you for our one month anniversary. Love is the sight of the paragraphs when I wake up. Love is the sight of seeing your wrist clean for a year. Love is the sight of waking up and realizing it's our one year anniversary. Love is the sight of nakedness. Love is the sight of you smiling. Love is the sight of our first date and delicious looking food.

Love is the smell of ha long bay and ginger tea. The smell of perfume on your girly days and the cologne on your not so girly days. Love is the smell of our house, along with bath and body works. Love is the smell of your hugs and your chapstick. Love is the smell of fresh vinyl and flower bouquets. Love is the smell of marshmallows and a crackling fire. Love is the smell of **** on my favorite sweatshirt. I love the smell of your sweatshirt and that's perfect.

Love is the taste of ha long bay. Love is the taste of her lips and chapstick against me. Love is the taste of wine and blood. Love is the taste of well, love. Not much to say for taste is there? Love is you.

You’re the first thing I think of when I wake up
And when I go to bed
Yet, If that wasn’t enough, even in the middle of the day I think of you.
You’re my soul reason for living.
And you never let me down.
You give a sense of purpose.
And make me laugh as if I was 3 years old again.
I think I love you...
At least that’s what I’d call this obsession...
You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this to you.
Well... I recently learned we can’t be together anymore.
She doesn’t want us seen together.
Apparently we’re a bad influence on each other.
I’m going to miss you.
At least that’s what I call this level of dedication

A few rules brought to you by society
Back hunched
Crying? Never.
Death cannot affect you
Enlist in the army
Fight everyone
Grow ****** hair
Hugs? Once again, never do them.
I’m just trying to help you find your way
Joke around in class
Knives are for fighting
Leave a mess everywhere
Music? Overrated
Never ask for help
Open doors for others
Please, thank you, ma’am, sir
Quiet, you must abide by these rules
Remember to ask the parents first
Sit in class, always confused
Talk with your mouth full
Understand your place in society
Very nicely, take her on dates
Wilt in sadness but never show it
Xerotic Eyes
Yes, I’m being honest even
Zebras abide by these rules

Depression

This is the sound of depression.
The sound of your mother yelling at you to clean your room up for the tenth time this week.
The sound of a blade engraved in your skin.
Your pencil scribbling down your intense thoughts.
The sound of the monster screaming you're not good enough.

This is the feeling of depression.
The sinking feeling of pain in your stomach.
The monster tickling the bottom of your spine so you get chills.
The feeling someone just broke up with you, but instead of getting this feeling once, you get this feeling once an hour.
You're father calling you a worthless **** and how you react to it.

This is the taste of depression.
The taste of blood.
The taste of ***** in your mouth because you can't keep your food down.
The taste of regret, the taste of sadness, the taste of hurt.
This is the taste of sadness.
The flavor of pain.
This is the taste of discomfort.

This is the smell of depression.
The smell of a dead body wafting through the vents.
*****.
Your dead body ******* itself.
This.
This is the reeking smell of depression.

This is the look of depression.
You not showering for your third week straight.
Engraved poetry in your wrist.
You almost hitting someone and everyone staring at you as you slowly lose your ****.
You losing 20 pounds in 1 week.
Not by purpose but not really by accident.
it just... wasn't the top of the depression priority list


this is depression.