I live in a society that mocks mental illness,
and with a mother that sugarcoats depression.
You're just tired,
she says as I try to overdose on Vitamin D
and my younger brother's pain pills
to be the good enough child
that she always thought she had.
But that's all I'm putting in my mouth,
I swear.
I keep the door to the pantry shut,
and I've learned to do the same with my lips,
even though that thing beneath my rib cage
that the cat scratched up too much
is fighting for a chance
to let my true feelings out.
Her parental guidance is a catalyst
to everything I told the therapist
who sits behind a desk
behind my eyes.
You're too young to love.
You're too fat to be anorexic.
You're too happy to be depressed.
No.
I am a girl,
in love with a man
that ***** every ounce of daydreams
from my body without touching a fingertip.
He leaves venom in my skin
that I mistake for affection,
and he leaves me wanting more;
wanting him to swallow me
like the New York City street rat
that no one even wants to look at,
because maybe then
I'd be able to bring him some satisfaction.
But I do not add nutrition,
I am not needed in his life.
I ask what time dinner is
because I haven't eaten breakfast,
or lunch.
I ask if I can have some more,
but I tell myself no
before the question lifts off my tongue
because I know my mother well.
I know that size 6 is average,
but who cares about a number like that
when I'm a healthy 20 pounds overweight?
I preach body positivity like a religion
tattooed into my bloodstream,
but even I don't understand the blasphemy.
And isn't it ironic
how the girl in love with the snake
is a hypocrite herself?
A hypocrite who puts on a mask
of Covergirl 110,
and blush in Feeling Pretty,
and black liner,
as if she were enhancing the trainwreck she created.
But sadness can't be cured
by the snap of my fingers,
by the pink gloss on my lips,
by the red dress in size 2,
by the galactic twinkle in his eyes,
or the parallel universes created by his smile.
So I'm sorry mom,
that it's not enough,
that I'm not enough
for you.