the word "special"
can be used to mean
incredibly different things

when she was called special
after her first performance
while being handed a giant bouquet
of vibrant flowers and candy
her smile stretched from end to end
cheeks pink and blushing
and stood proud as the audience called for an encore

when he was called special
after fumbling the ball for ---
what, the fourth time in a row?---
his chest felt hollow
and he chuckled along anxiously
with the rest of his team
who were laughing raucously

when she was called special
after releasing her first album
the world was announcing her name
'The Next Big Thing'
she was used to it
flipped her hair
and wondered what
normal people were like
and pitied them

when he was called special
after being called in by his counselor
who added that
he wouldn't be able to graduate
his face fell
even though he was used to being
called special
as he walked out of the school
letter to his mother in hand
he wondered what normal people were like
and envied them

Depression and Anxiety are Death's wingmen
together, they appeal to my heart
with promises of how good he is
how he could make everything better
how i would be much better off with him
he could hold me forever
and i would be safe in his arms
i must admit
i've tried to run away to him before
the promises were so beautiful
and it seemed that everything would be fixed
once i met him
but i didnt realize that
Death was a player
and Depression and Anxiety were his
******* comrades
wanting to see how many
he could get through
seducing them with empty promises
and not let them think of anyone else
forget the easy ones
force the way through the tough ones
conquering people has become a game
how many will meet with Death?
although i know the truth now
sometimes i still long for him
and i stare at the knives in the kitchen
but i've rejected Death once
i can do it again

sometimes Depression
is the wingman for my evergrowing crush
on Death, of course
he tells me what to do
in order for him to love me back
slit your wrist
let the blood spill
stare at the half-full
orange pill bottle in the medicine cabinet
some days
Depression makes me a better person
he tells me that Death will like me better if
i dont get out of bed
if i become skinnier
because he likes being the big spoon
he likes to swallow me up in his arms
and never let me leave
Depression whispers the secrets
the keys to unlock Death's heart
and when i finally gain the courage
i confess to Death
with a noose around my neck

invasive thoughts
penetrate the solid protections
surrounding my mind
bribing the guards
with a touch of adrenaline
the only drug that fills their veins
"what if you jumped off?"
their seductive questions are appealing
i lean slightly over the edge
the fence restrains my body
"you should step over
it's okay, i've got you."
reassurances with no basis
but i continue anyway
i would've fallen that day
had someone not seen
a petite body
suspended between life and death

1, 2, 3, 4
count the ridges my thumb brushes over
as it runs over the hills of my bony knuckles
tanned and rough
"these are mine"
stress the mine
as the mantra parades
through my head
it does not click
i am still floating
far away from this fleshy costume
i pick up the strings
of the puppet that is supposed to be me
and walk out the door

afternoons covered in a shroud
wasted away by
replacing days with white sheets of paper
covered in gray scratches of ink
later to be pushed into nervous hands
a letter circled in red
discouraged to find
their hard work was not enough
for the ever brutal school
childhoods wasted away
by stress and worry

i wonder what it feels like to be devastated
completely immersed in grief
tears falling to the floor
in a steady beat to the song of irregular hiccups and cries
weaving quietly through silence
or mixed and lost as a crowd mourns together

i wonder what it feels like to be ecstatic
drowning in warmth and
smiling so hard your cheeks hurt
giggles spilling from an upturned mouth
smiling not from necessity
but from pure joy

i wonder what it feels like to be enraged
bright red blinding previously-clear vision
fingernails digging white crescent moons into pink palms
mind clear and focused but with emotion instead of facts
reckless endangerment
needed for revenge

i wonder what it feels like
to feel something other than
these carbon copies of emotions
for i can feel
but it does not affect my soul
and the emotions feel blurry
counterfeit portraits of
what should be there