Have you ever been happy?
Been so happy it was blinding?

Have you ever wanted to die?

I am terrified of being low again
because maybe the next time I hit the ground
it will **** me in and I will never
get to see the light again.

I am terrified of imagining blades on my wrists.
I am terrified of the black sluggishness in my brain.
I am terrified of the stitched smiles upon my face.
I am terrified of hopelessness and shame.

I don’t want to be low ever again.
I don’t want to live through that pain ever again.

I want to live.
I need to want to live.
I need to see life as blindingly white.
But I see the feeling fade away before my eyes,
and I can only reach for it with lanky arms;
my fingers gracing the reflection of something
that was long ago solid but somehow melted,
vaporised, disappeared.
And I will be forever too weak
to do anything about it but learn to miss
a happiness I began to mourn the day it arrived.
I can only watch as my reasons to live go away
in a hope that my mind will not conjure up
a new list, but for the reasons to forever stop this pain.

What does desperation look like?
It looks like a top two sizes too small,
like a jumper on summer,
like a self inflicted scar.
It looks like an empty bottle of pills
laying on the bathroom floor,
like a smile too bright, too big,
like a phone call at night,
like a goodbye.
Desperation looks like everyday life.

She no longer soars
Agony in every stroke
She beats broken wings

dry wind
slaps me awake
a reminder to my consciousness
of breathing lungs
of pumping blood

i look around
its all the same
a city, a crowd, a group,
of people smiling, laughing, crying,
of faces unfamiliar

some smile at me
and some wave
some glance, some stare.
some walk up to me, ask my name
i make them laugh , laugh myself.
Another encounter -- my heart flutters
just to break
when they ask my name again

fervor connections,
ardor bonds,
once eternal, now lost
beyond the moon
behind the sun
i envy the stars, i envy them.
every night, i beg and plead
to let me be a part of them
still they refuse,
a harsh tone.

where do i belong
if not the sky or the earth?

Anxiety is not my enemy
She is my safety
Changed from years of turmoil.
She should have been held
And addressed properly
But she was pushed down and suppressed instead.
Anxiety is not my enemy
She is love trying to offer the protection that she never received
She is my safety betrayed.

Sorrow is not my enemy
He is my hurt
Turned inwards
Shoved aside and ignored
When his hands should have been taken
While he was told that it's okay to feel grief.
Sorrow is not my enemy.
He is my heart trying to recover from being trampled on.

Depression is not my enemy
He is my Self-awareness
Putting up decorations
That are loud and bright
Because no one noticed them last time.
He should have been seen
And hugged
And told that it's okay to not be okay.
Depression is not my enemy.
He is my soul attempting to remind me that my sorrow is real.

Anger is not my enemy
He is all of my nerves
Cut and bruised from hands and blades
That I never saw coming.
He should have been washed and bandaged
But instead, salt was poured into the wound.
Anger is not my enemy.
He is my throbbing skin trying to tell me that I've still got wounds that haven't scabbed over quite yet.

Fear is not my enemy.
He is my mind
Folded over on itself
Refusing to trust
Huddled in a corner
Because he could not trust the ones he should have been able to.
He should have been helped,
But he was ignored instead.
Fear is not my enemy.
He is the caution that I felt that everyone ignored–including me.

Trauma is not my enemy
She is a little girl
Screaming for help
Because no one listened to her before.
She should have been heard
And dealt with gently
Trauma is not my enemy.
She is the part of me that never truly healed. She is the part that no one ever listened to.
But I'm listening now.

And I am not my enemy.

I wear a love-proof vest, swallowing bullets with my face—
all my scars know their taste. My hopes are all on diet to fit
today’s problems; spray-painted days, worries tagged across
the night— each thought a vandalism I can’t scrub away.

Fruitful passions, I can’t stomach passionfruit in my punch.
Life loves to punch back harder— each sip a reminder that
sweetness still bruises. Young & depressed: insecurities
overdressed, confidence underdressed, thoughts pressed
into stress.

Life asks you for a ruler, to lay it down smoother, measuring
the depth of your love. But... it doesn’t apply so well to me,
when I bunked a few lessons as a day-schooler. Always trying
to fit in by being cooler, amongst a circle of friends, but really,
we were just squares— boxed in by our insecurities; angles
sharper than the bonds we bent. And I try to pray long—
but sometimes, I digress. Sorry… what were we saying?

So much emptiness, schemes plotted against me, reality
never stretching as far as dreams. Illuding the fact, illusions
often feel more real. Interluding between horizons: am I ahead,
or beneath the dark where even stars are too shy to come out?

Hope still comes as a guest. Still wishing for superpowers:
invisible to pain, invincible to scars, shapeshifting to belong.
Force fields to block their touch. Time manipulation— just to
keep up with the times. X-ray vision to see through their false
intentions. Superspeed to outrun the pain. Healing to undo my
shame.

But in the end, I have no cape, no mask, no trick of the pen—
I'm only human. And I’ll be human to the end, recalling the
feeling of being young & depressed.