It's hard for me to say how I feel sometimes,
With all the ups and downs,
And violent, stomach-churning, headaches
That violate basic concepts of biology.

It's hard for me to say how I know
What it would feel like to drown in wet cement
And how my throat would feel as it started to harden,
My lungs to shatter whilst freezing in time.
But I do.

It's hard for me to say to my parents that I'm unhappy.
They, who raised me well and gave me privilege,
And brought me to live in the ******* Caribbean,
And enabled me to go to university.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
That life itself has revealed its true ****-stained form.
That I'm unsatisfied with my privilege,
The things that they sacrificed for me. That they mean nothing.
But it's true.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
But it is a necessity.
It is keeping me alive.
Reminding me that there is something wrong with me.
But I can be okay.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
But I can be okay.
Can't I?
There are good days and bad but it never seems to leave...
It is a shadow cast over my being,
Cast over my brain.
But I can be okay.
Can't I?
It's hard for me to say...