My depression doesn't come in the form of
rain clouds crowding over the sun and pouring
torrential rain on the sidewalks.
My depression doesn't come in the form of
thin white lines on smooth, brown surfaces --
when I say an arm, would you know if I meant
my limb or a part of a chair?
Would it even make a difference?
My depression doesn't come in the form of
empty bottles and missing wallets;
of nights spent in a drunken haze,
of sleeping in park benches and vomiting onto the pavement.
No. It comes in the little things --
Like the untouched, dry paintbrushes on my desk,
Like the growing collection of half-finished water bottles at the side of my bed,
and the tapestry that fell that I refuse to pick up.
It comes in little packages, like
the sparsity of my fridge, or the overflowing trash bins.
When was the last time my pots and pans have been taken out of the cupboard?
The last time that I prepared something that wasn't
microwaveable-ready, or straight out of a packet?
It's received with little fanfare, like
the state of my hair, unwashed for days;
the sunken spot in the middle of the mattress;
the awkward silence around friends.
Is the conversation drifting, or is it you?
It's crying in the bus for no apparent reason,
it's calling parents just to feel a tug of affection,
it's over-compensating with love and openness that feel entirely alien to be on the receiving end of.
It's smiles, it's frowns,
it's shouting, and silence,
It's day, and night,
and young, and old,
and in, and out;
The point is, the point is --
my depression does not look like yours.
I don't know what it's supposed to look like,
and at this point I'm too afraid to ask
the dark mass at the foot of my bed,
to manifest into something I can understand
lest it decides to finally swallow me whole.
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
My depression doesn't come in the form of
rain clouds crowding over the sun and pouring
torrential rain on the sidewalks.
My depression doesn't come in the form of
thin white lines on smooth, brown surfaces --
when I say an arm, would you know if I meant
my limb or a part of a chair?
Would it even make a difference?
My depression doesn't come in the form of
empty bottles and missing wallets;
of nights spent in a drunken haze,
of sleeping in park benches and vomiting onto the pavement.
No. It comes in the little things --
Like the untouched, dry paintbrushes on my desk,
Like the growing collection of half-finished water bottles at the side of my bed,
and the tapestry that fell that I refuse to pick up.
It comes in little packages, like
the sparsity of my fridge, or the overflowing trash bins.
When was the last time my pots and pans have been taken out of the cupboard?
The last time that I prepared something that wasn't
microwaveable-ready, or straight out of a packet?
It's received with little fanfare, like
the state of my hair, unwashed for days;
the sunken spot in the middle of the mattress;
the awkward silence around friends.
Is the conversation drifting, or is it you?
It's crying in the bus for no apparent reason,
it's calling parents just to feel a tug of affection,
it's over-compensating with love and openness that feel entirely alien to be on the receiving end of.
It's smiles, it's frowns,
it's shouting, and silence,
It's day, and night,
and young, and old,
and in, and out;
The point is, the point is --
my depression does not look like yours.
I don't know what it's supposed to look like,
and at this point I'm too afraid to ask
the dark mass at the foot of my bed,
to manifest into something I can understand
lest it decides to finally swallow me whole.