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July Aug 7
I want to write that in front of every achievement
I want to write it at the head of every poem I write

And I don’t think I will be able to create anything
At least, nothing I am proud of
Without an asterisk explaining
This is my depression work

For depression affects everything
Infects everything
Dims my worldview and
Makes me irrational, hypocritical and
Turns me into someone I am ashamed to be

Depression takes away half of my once-brilliant mind
It leeches off my creativity
Drains the enchanting, poetic optimism inside me
Until everything I think, everything I create, everything I am
Disgusts me

Just as a reminder
This is my depression work
July May 10
I cut myself on shattered glass,
And cried out for help,
But instead of tending to my wounds,
You told me to be more careful.

For the shards were not merely broken glass,
But part of a beautiful mosaic
You have crafted,
From fragments of the truth.

The blue of my tears,
The red of my blood,
The dark rainbow of my bruised body,
Shaped into a work of art,
Glued together with a thousand promises,
And the strength of your love.

And as I gaze at the masterpiece you have created,
You recite a familiar fable:
You are the worried villager;
I am the boy who cried wolf.
You are the giving tree;
I am the ungrateful child.

But then you turn out the light,
And I can no longer see the pattern.
Once again you close the door,
And I am left bleeding in the dark.

And so I recite to myself a new lullaby:
You are the pied piper leading me away;
I am the child following blindly.
You are the big bad wolf;
I am the little girl,
Learning not to trust.

— The End —