I almost didn’t believe you understood the concept of “depression” until I remembered that day.


today.

I sit on our broken couch

picking at my cuticles

trying not to let you see me cry

secretly angry

that you think you understand.

I bite my tongue because biting my knuckles is too close to cutting.


then.

I have the vaguest memories

of a house where windows never opened

nobody left

nobody visited

the carpet littered with books and toys

tv the only light

metaphorical or otherwise

getting out of bed at 2PM

cooking pancakes

I threw away underneath the sink full of ***** dishes

they were still gooey in the middle

but you didn’t notice

and went back to bed.

I thought you were sick.

I was the one who didn’t understand.


now.

we joke about the heroine you never did

only because you don’t like needles

and all the cutting I do

because I do

and I think we somehow

feel equally guilty.