Yesterday
I spent $45
on brand cosmetic makeup
Drove home after
debating with
myself in line,
shaky hands fumbling
with the plastic
casings enveloping
over-priced wax
Today
I woke up at 6 A.M.
applying my new
purchases with a
loving hand,
Confidence glowing
from my freshly done
face like sun beams
You and I
may have different
definitions of
a good day
The goals I set
for myself you
may scoff at,
a daily routine
for you has taken
me 4 weeks, 32
days and the writing
of this poem
to finally complete
(It would be 31 days
but I spent one extra
trying to convince
myself that I am
as worthy as
the first day
of the
month.)
Since Monday
I have accepted
the doctor’s advice,
paid my
car insurance and
my phone bill,
returned 11 missed
calls, hushed the
demons beneath
my bed so that I
could get one
good night’s sleep
(Their voices in
my head no
longer haunt
me.), remembered
to take all
of my
medicine
My dad
is proud
of me
This kind of
pride is
not the type
he flaunts
over toasts
at the bar,
he doesn’t
chime into
conversations
like, “My
daughter scored
a perfect 36 on
her ACT” with
“Did she? Well my
daughter can
finally take
all 5 pills
without
a reminder”
but
He is proud
To be so appreciative
of something so
small
is because
he remembers
the vortex
before this
The days I could
not remember
the function
of any part
of this
lifeless body,
the days I
would keep
as silent as
the intonation
of the ugliest
shade
of grey for
months; he
prayed each
weekly
phone call
from
the hospital
wasn’t
the “I’m
so sorry”
following my
suicide
These
were the
bad days
My life
was a gift
I wanted
to return
The thick
fog of darkness
settling inside
my head served
as mood lighting
for the loose
screws and
bent nails,
the crevices
of my brain
inviting each
drop of
mental illness
in to
drown me
Depression
loves me
so good
She has
this intrinsic
flaw of
locking the
spotlight
on you,
the betrayal
to parallel
your thoughts
with her
own, and
it becomes
more natural
to welcome
the abuse
than to find
a way to
escape
Today
I willingly
climbed
out of bed
before my
alarm,
washed my
bed sheets,
changed
my profile
picture on
Facebook,
opened
the windows
You and I
may have different
definitions of
progress
I didn’t get
the perfect 36
on my ACT
even after taking
it 4 times, I
didn’t get accepted
to my dream
school, but I
don’t punish
others
for the
absence of
my desires,
and my dad
is proud
of me
The brick wall
edifice of my
depression now
lie in ruins, and
I take full
credit,
the filter of
grey shading
over my life
has transformed
itself into
the color of
hope
My favorite pen
I’ve relied on
to rewrite
my life has
challenged me:
“This is not
the life you
want to
live.”
But
I
am
alive
I’m not
weak in the
knees
over the glistening
edge of a razor
blade, my nightly
prayers don’t
include
tomorrow’s death
wish of throwing
myself off
the Brooklyn bridge
I just
painted my nails,
folded all
of my laundry,
called my dad
And told him,
“I hope you’re proud
of me.”
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
Yesterday
I spent $45
on brand cosmetic makeup
Drove home after
debating with
myself in line,
shaky hands fumbling
with the plastic
casings enveloping
over-priced wax
Today
I woke up at 6 A.M.
applying my new
purchases with a
loving hand,
Confidence glowing
from my freshly done
face like sun beams
You and I
may have different
definitions of
a good day
The goals I set
for myself you
may scoff at,
a daily routine
for you has taken
me 4 weeks, 32
days and the writing
of this poem
to finally complete
(It would be 31 days
but I spent one extra
trying to convince
myself that I am
as worthy as
the first day
of the
month.)
Since Monday
I have accepted
the doctor’s advice,
paid my
car insurance and
my phone bill,
returned 11 missed
calls, hushed the
demons beneath
my bed so that I
could get one
good night’s sleep
(Their voices in
my head no
longer haunt
me.), remembered
to take all
of my
medicine
My dad
is proud
of me
This kind of
pride is
not the type
he flaunts
over toasts
at the bar,
he doesn’t
chime into
conversations
like, “My
daughter scored
a perfect 36 on
her ACT” with
“Did she? Well my
daughter can
finally take
all 5 pills
without
a reminder”
but
He is proud
To be so appreciative
of something so
small
is because
he remembers
the vortex
before this
The days I could
not remember
the function
of any part
of this
lifeless body,
the days I
would keep
as silent as
the intonation
of the ugliest
shade
of grey for
months; he
prayed each
weekly
phone call
from
the hospital
wasn’t
the “I’m
so sorry”
following my
suicide
These
were the
bad days
My life
was a gift
I wanted
to return
The thick
fog of darkness
settling inside
my head served
as mood lighting
for the loose
screws and
bent nails,
the crevices
of my brain
inviting each
drop of
mental illness
in to
drown me
Depression
loves me
so good
She has
this intrinsic
flaw of
locking the
spotlight
on you,
the betrayal
to parallel
your thoughts
with her
own, and
it becomes
more natural
to welcome
the abuse
than to find
a way to
escape
Today
I willingly
climbed
out of bed
before my
alarm,
washed my
bed sheets,
changed
my profile
picture on
Facebook,
opened
the windows
You and I
may have different
definitions of
progress
I didn’t get
the perfect 36
on my ACT
even after taking
it 4 times, I
didn’t get accepted
to my dream
school, but I
don’t punish
others
for the
absence of
my desires,
and my dad
is proud
of me
The brick wall
edifice of my
depression now
lie in ruins, and
I take full
credit,
the filter of
grey shading
over my life
has transformed
itself into
the color of
hope
My favorite pen
I’ve relied on
to rewrite
my life has
challenged me:
“This is not
the life you
want to
live.”
But
I
am
alive
I’m not
weak in the
knees
over the glistening
edge of a razor
blade, my nightly
prayers don’t
include
tomorrow’s death
wish of throwing
myself off
the Brooklyn bridge
I just
painted my nails,
folded all
of my laundry,
called my dad
And told him,
“I hope you’re proud
of me.”
