When I was younger, commercials told me that depression hurt, and I had no idea what that meant. Flowers were flowers and the sun tanned my skin and peach tea ran through my veins and the world produced enough magic for me to be content.

How I ended up on my bathroom floor with a knife is a story for after my eulogy. Do not mention how the flowers died, how the sun burned my skin, or how the world is the worst it has ever been.  

Suddenly, I was mocked by every living thing on this planet. They sighed “you do not live.” Every frown was another twist of the barbed wire tangled up in my bones that clicked toward the destruction of my free will and the caging of my heart, brittle and broken and bruised and more than ready to stop its frail beating.

I used to want. Want to lap up the planet like a thirsty dog, satiated by the sanguine hearts that care for the earth, I wanted to glide through every part of history with my eyes wide open with a ribcage breathing energy and light, strength and confidence.

And here I am.

I wonder if any of it was real at all. Until I find out, I’ll make myself a part of history today. May you forever remember the pigment of my eyes when I cried from the joy of the moment.

This is the end of the road.



~d.a