Depression comes with tearing her hair loose.
The floor trembles in her presence. She likes my bed the best, curls herself up and weeps in silence.
She looks in a mirror and stands up straight, ***** in her stomach, pushes her shoulders up front and looks idly at what so much inactivity has done to her body.
She is always this way: nearly deteriorated for the heaviness of her heart. How she moves ghostly from place to place. How she can’t look at anyone in the eyes. How she compensates her lack of will with caffeine.
I hold her every night as she cries herself to sleep. I tell her, you can’t stay here forever. There’s things I've got to do.
There's days I come to find her gone. No explanation, no said words, just the smeared mascara of her absence on my pillow.
I lose myself trying to protect her.  
It's a unilateral decision, it always has been.
But the longer she stays, the longer this undesirable impregnation of inaptitude stays in my body.
These days, I've conquered the times this disease embodied my soul.