I wear self-hate like a scarf.
It wrings itself into a fashionable noose
that knots a comfortable weight around my neck.
"There is no shame in depression," they tell me,
so I wear it like the locket I got for my twelfth birthday,
still hollow eight years later.
I remember to wear gloves for the anxiety
and cry when you can still see my hands shake.
Belts pick up the slack from days of skipped meals
and vomiting sessions.
My eyes are permanently fixed to the ground
and I carry myself like I am being dragged into life.
My body is a time bomb,
a controlled burn,
and the last grains of sand are spiraling down
Just like I am.