My depression is a glass of flat lemonade –
hard to swallow
but I can’t stop coming back to its sweetness.
I have learnt to stop
wallowing in it, though -
deep down there is a part of me
unwilling, yet it knows
to give up trying to get rid
and I’ve learnt to accept,
because despite what I’m told,
that I should not let my depression be so bold
in telling me what to do,
existing like this is almost bearable
because it exists like outer space –
there is so much of it
yet it communicates its complexity in silence.
I am yet to receive a response from the void,
but feeling this crushing nothingness at 2pm
in an aisle of a supermarket
makes me realise it’s not gone yet.
I don’t know if it’ll ever leave.