Depression suffocates it's victims.

It engulfs their thoughts with nothing less
than the repetitive deafening drumming
that have been put on display through the
art work on my wrists.

'Oh no it's my cat, he's a scratcher'.

They look at me with pity in their eyes.
Stop it.
Stop looking down at me like a lost girl who needs guidance,
like a stupid girl who needs to pop a pill to make her smile.

I'm no clown,

I don't feel the need to draw on a smile.
As if I'd believe my own pathetic excuses.
But do you truly realise what agony my own soul is feeling?
Do you know I open my skin up to release my demons?
Do you know I cry to cleanse my body of the holy water I surely do not deserve.

Skin and bones.
Scarred and fragile.

I sit in a room full of boisterous people
still feeling like part of the wallpaper.
Still feeling like the transparent vase amidst the
decorated clay pots.
The colour of my life has been stripped back to the bare
blacks and whites.