You are standing in front of me
though I'm not sure how you're still standing
with all of that metal hanging
from your shoulders  to the ground.

You stand far off in the distance
and step back once
whenever I have advanced twice.
Your armor is like a mirror in which
I see my own reflection.

Eventually I reach you and
you falter and halt your retreat.
You are afraid, and you hold out your weapon.
I carefully touch the blade
It draws a drop of blood
It shines against the overused sword
Faraway you've named it.
Though it has yet to cut me in two.

I take the hilt in my hands
and lift it from your grasp
your hands fall to your sides,
grateful for the relief.

It is a dance between us again,
a step backward, and two against.
I am close enough to hear your warm breath
fighting with the cool metal
covering your face.

I reach out
and take the first buckle in my hand.
Piece by piece, it falls to the ground.
Layers take years to reach,
but your skin is lighter for it.

Down to chain mail and helm
you seem to be weak.
Your body exhausted from
the weight it has carried for so long.

Patience fills my heart as we dance again,
to and from,
back and forth,
but you are down on your knees now.
I lower myself to the ground
and lift with both hands
the split sphere around your face.

I am hit by wave upon wave
of unsteady, wild emotion
but I do not turn away.
chain mail is last to fall,
and there you are.

You are glowing hot,
red and orange and sometimes blue
and It burns my skin, but I hang on tight.
You blister me purposely
let go
But we are already fused.
You melt into a shaking
and tired mess in my arms

and then we stand.

And I don't love you any less for it.

I'm sitting here wondering what you think of me.
That I'm weak and spineless. A loser for pushing you the way I did.
I probably am.
I know I'm bad for you, my selfish heart clinging to you like burrs to a cat's tail.
Cast aside when you tire of my presence.
I wrote you music that I sing to myself when I get lonely.
I remind myself that your happiness is more important than my own.
But my dear, losing you might just destroy me.
It might wither me away into nothing.
Like I never existed.
Like I've been broken into tiny pieces.
Small enough to be blown away
like dust in the wind.

You sit in your chair
a record plays in the background
and I know what you're thinking.
You are silent, but your body is screaming.

Your hands folded across your chest,
chin tilted downward.
Your eyes don't meet mine,
but I can see the storm within them.

Your mind is a battlefield
where weapons clash and martyrs fall
you convince yourself
that you are alone
even though I am close enough to touch you.

Lying on the bathroom floor
staring up at the stars
the ceiling gone, and I imagine your face
painted in the sky like a ghost
of my needs, my wants, my affections.

You laugh and stare at someone else
while I lay here, blade on the left
and bottle on the right
a cigarette at my lips
where I wish yours were.

But the end of this story is yet unwritten
and you hold the pen in your hand
I refuse to touch the items around me
in a circle like buzzards over
a dying animal.

blade. bottle. heart. cigarettes. tears. clothing. paper.

A little pile of ash rains on my collarbone.
I draw a heart
where mine used to be.
I haven't had it for quite some time.
Because I continually give it to
people who need it more than I.

And now I stare up at it
I'm not sad
but how can I be happy
with your lips on his
and my eyes on you.

I love the way you look at me
as my toes curl on the edge of the pavement.
For once it looks like you care
as I'm standing, looking down at my grave.

Your tears electrify me
as they mix with the hot summer rain,
because now you're terrified.
I feed on the fear.
The basis of you, losing something
other than time, money, or your mind.

I lean forward and hear you gasp
I laugh, lean further, stretch out my arms...

You don't catch me.
I knew you wouldn't.
That's fine.
Maybe in
the next life
someone else
will.

She
He
But the correct answer is we.

She
She
No, that's wrong, the winds scream.

He
He
Isn't what was intended.

Yet this is what's real.

Voices tremble behind closed lips.
A door locked and the key swallowed.
For her and her,
Me and you.

But you remain indifferent.
Unchanged and stony silent.
That is what the world says is good.

He
She.

I just have to be honest with you right here, right now, and it’s not going to be nice. Or easy, for that matter.

I hate you.

I hate how you cling to my shoulders, demanding my attention when I’m trying to do normal college girl things. Like when you insist on riding along when I go out with my friends, reminding me every five minutes that you think I’m ugly and worthless. I hate how you cling to my neck, making my entire back and my shoulders physically fatigued. I hate how you read too far into situations, convincing me that people think I’m weird or stupid. I hate it when you tell me to cut my hips because feeling physical pain is better than feeling nothing at all. I hate that you tell me that after I cut, the scars are ugly, so I’d best never do it where people can see them. I hate it when you tell me that I’m weak for giving in, but then convince me to give in yet again. I hate the stress headaches you give me from telling me all of these things. I hate how at the end of the night, you make me think about all of my mistakes during the day, keeping me awake until two. I hate how you suggest I do everyone a favor and just **** myself. I hate how you give me nightmares about my greatest fears becoming a reality. I hate how you sit on my chest in the mornings, making it nearly impossible for me to drag my aching, weary body to the shower to wash your black fingerprints away from my neck.

But let me make this quite clear to you:

You do not own me.

I may be stuck with you, and it may be a daily struggle for me to do normal things, but you do not control my life.

Sometimes I wish other people would understand what it’s like for me. I wish they could see your black, blobby figure hanging on my back. I wish they could see the knots in my shoulders that have your fingerprints all over them.

I wish they didn’t see you as a lie.

You are very real.

Mental illness is something society frowns upon, did you know that? You are the reason that I have to lie and say that I’m ‘just tired’ or I ‘am a little bit sick,’ when my physical appearance portrays my mental turmoil. If I told them the truth about you, I’d be treated as one of two things:

1.      Crazy
Or
2.      A liar.

So I hope you understand my dilemma, Depression. I hope you understand why I resent you so very much. I hope for my sake, and for everyone who cares about me, that you will not break me down to the point of taking my own life.

I hate you, Depression.

But that’s okay, because as long as I hate you…

You don’t own me.


Sincerely,

Sarina Kay Cassell