Occasionally, somebody comes along and unlocks
a part of me, that I never knew existed.

Sometimes, I am okay with that,
welcoming, the rush of warmth that floods my body.

Then occasionally,
more often than not,

I mess up.

Time, and time again -
never learning but always loathing.

I have changed though,
yet it appears it's too little, too late
and those that could have been an option for
joy, those who could have held my very own
personalised key to happiness,

have left already.

I have to move.
I have to get up and brush myself off and start over, again.
I need to feel the energy surging through me,
pulsing, throbbing.
I need a sensation that is merely a distant memory,
feeling alive.

I know I will eventually move.
Sometime, soon, maybe.

I have to move,
Get up and go -
travel, run, explore.

I need to live again.

It's been a long time,
Since I smiled sincerely, or
built up the confidence to start over.

It's been a while since,
I've felt the sun and all it's glory
shine down on me.

It's been a long time since,
I've explored my emotions and put pen to paper,
always pushing words aside,
saving them for later.

It's taken a long time,
but now I'm back,
and from now on, these emotions
shall not get suppressed,
but addressed.

It's been too long.

Bus number 231,
A journey into the unknown, butterflies fluttering in my stomach -
nerves beyond those of which I am familiar with.
The silhouette of you matches the figure of which I had in mind,
you walk - or rather, stroll - up the lane, a puzzled look upon your face as my bus innocently sweeps past, the warmth of the summer air blowing your hair back in exasperation.
Buzz
Then buzz again, of a different kind.
The spring breeze wafts past me, teasingly.
A singular pavement winds up to you and eventually we meet.

Depression is gradual,
It doesn't start off looking in the mirror and thinking 'I hate myself'
It's more like every day you get worse and worse until eventually you realize how many times a day you fake a laugh,
It's the times you wanted to curl up into a ball but instead you fake a smile and act normal.

Depression is not self harm,
It isn't defined by the number of scars you have or how deep they are,
It isn't the nights spent crying or how your home life is,
It's feeling tired all the time and having this hole in your chest that no amount of fake smiles can fill.
It's nights spent staring at a wall or constantly sleeping because nothing is worth doing.

Depression is not romantic,
It can't be cured with a few hugs and I love you's,
It isn't scars to be kissed or bruises to be caressed,
It's nights spent alone even when there are people beside you,
It's emptiness and realizing that all of those things you used to do, that you used to revel in, aren't worth it anymore.

Depression is real,
It isn't wanting attention or someone to tell you everything will be fine,
It isn't wearing short sleeves so people notice your scars or telling everyone how sad you are,
It is looking at the casket of one of your friends because we didn't notice it, because no one saw the signs,
It's a noose around your neck 24/7 because that's all you can think about,
It's emptiness and loneliness,
It's sleepless nights but sleep filled days,
It is the worst feeling in the world,
Depression is real and depression kills

Of course I survived that Sunday afternoon.
Of course I made it to that dreaded Monday-morning.
An overcast afternoon as I set off, four-seventeen,
rain droplets thumping against my umbrella which shrieked with terror.
Pathetic fallacy, the foreshadowing of what was to come.
Your house, on the top of that hill, an uphill climb
with an even worse descent back home.
Crawling under your duvets, suffocated in love more than you can imagine yet an hour later, and the comfort of warmth and shelter is stripped away from me, like one would strip a bed of it's duvet-cover.
Five-forty-five, as the clouds thicken and rumble with excitement, shuffling sheepishly down the stairs,
I pick up my coat and various belongings.
Your dog whimpers, but he's not as sad as I am.
Maybe this time I'll leave, and won't come back.

People write about people,
that make them cry with joy or burst
with happiness.
I talk about people,
that break hearts and move on without a second glance back.
Association.
Disassociation,
mixing with the wrong kind.
Merging with those that wave their middle-finger to the world.
If I don't veer from them soon,
One day I could end up like those
people.