Can we talk about busy city streets?

how they look most enticing at rush hour when the sun is dipping below the treeline in late November and it would take just one second too long for any passerby to notice you staring deep into their eyes as they hurtle towards you at a speed just high enough to rid the world of you permanently. How when they stop in time, something inside of you shatters, disappointed, and you sob violently as they rush to come to your aid, saying things like "what were you doing in the middle of the street?" or "honey are you okay, is there someone I can call for you?"  They mask their confusion with sincerity, and you tell them they can move on with their day.

Lets talk about the voices in the back of your head.

the ones that others swear don't exist. they tell you it does not get better. they tell you that your parents lied when they said they would never leave you, because everyone ends up in a box someday.

Lets talk about the depression that grips you ferociously, swearing its normal to stay in bed all day, to sleep for 23 hours, and eat nothing but chocolate icecream, or even nothing at all.

Lets talk about the anxiety that helps you question stepping out of your house in that outfit, or calling a friend, or trying to make friends, because you're probably just not good enough, right?

Lets talk about the invisible diseases, the ones that parents swear are a phase, the ones that helped me create this multitude of "obviously hypothetical situations".

Mom, Dad, Aunt, friend, they're ******* real. i know because they devour me as i lie in bed awake at night google searching for things that could cure me. make me less awkward at family parties. make it so i can start up a conversation at the dinner table without tripping over every single syllable, hoping i chose the right ones to use. make it so that i can stand up for myself, without the immense fear of being wrong for doing so. make it so i feel good enough. make it so i don't ******* hate myself. they're real and i'm tired of you putting them on the back burner, if you care about me, they matter.

they are not disposable, i cannot get rid of them. they are not something that you can fix by buying me a new makeup palette, or explaining that a lot of other people have it worse. do not tell me to just "make friends" or find a new hobby, if it were that simple, I'd have my doctorate in human psychology by now. So next time you tell me that my problems are silly, or irrelevant, i swear there will be slurs screamed so loud that they'll be heard in Hong Kong, because you cannot take these away from me, because they are chained to my ankle, and i am stuck in the middle of a busy city street, enchanted by the way headlights shine on my skin.