I try to tell my boyfriend that I am depressed less than three times a day after that it gets a little depressing like maybe it’s a ghost that if I don’t acknowledge it will glide back into the thin layer between the underworld and mine. I don’t know how to talk about wanting to die without personifying it addressing it as a pronoun saying its name and capitalizing the first letter tightening the slick leather collar around its neck that reads: “If lost please call…” sticking its freshly birthed hand on certificate but all I can say is when I'm sitting in an all-white walled in 9 by 5 room and the ceiling becomes latex, seals itself a vacuum over my face, all I can think about is what a touch of cardinal could do for this room but the thought of my brains turning brown and ugly, after a few hours of the three people I cared about forgetting about me, is enough to do nothing until my sweat becomes comfortable with mattress and out of necessity I move.
A boy with bruises for under eyes in two o’clock poetry stayed ten minutes after just to tell our professor that he felt like a dead body and when I went home that day I laid in bed long enough to watch my plant follow the grace of the sun eight limbs strung wide open a gradient of striped canary strewn across my bedroom floor as it left me. I thought maybe the dead body boy will schedule to be known as existing only to his bed the same days as me so that our agendas and the ******* Gods and the other planets that are of no use to me can align and when I don't show up in the world for a week and neither does he everyone will think there must just be something contagious going around maybe there is— Do you think that throwing your dinner away and smashing the plate, allowing shower water to run cold over hot flesh, and treating sleeping as an affair that I can only participate with eyes cemented open is a new symptom of the next bat-**** virus everyone will lose their minds over? Asking nurses if there's any way to make permanent the needle still pierced through soft pit of inside elbow skin and spewing the hauling behind you of a sweet 20 pound IV like a dead body?
When I wake up in the morning,
I don't
know the difference between dreaming in increments— and being alive.
The angstiest, most emo thing I have ever written lol