I cloak my conditions in colloquial
Decode my demeanor, I dare you.
There’s no definition to be found.

I am the same as the others
Too different and you’re strange
And hidden feels happier than strange.

I'd say something if I felt like it
but depression seems to take feeling
and wrinkle it into *****
crumpled and crushed
compacted closer than the papers piling around me
as I delete drafts
dramatically demanding a **** word
to hold meaning it never could.

Sometimes, words are nothing.
Because when they are everything,
I can't bring myself to say anything
so they might as well be nothing.