Note to self,
Writing about slit wrists, night terrors, or a chain of mental illnesses,
is not poetry.
You're venting.
It's not wrong, but it's not poetry.
You aren't the first or the last to go through ****.
And even though knowing that doesn't make depression hurt any less,
don't try and create a pedestal out of your problems.
Use the platforms and devices that are helping you vent,
instead be the means to help find a solution.
Afterwards, put that progressive period
and those months of emotional cultivation into words.
That's poetry.
Understand your place in the human lineage.
Compare yourself to those before you.
Realize the audacity in calling yourself depressed.
Step up and step into your greatness.

Write about how you have a list in the back of your mind of all the places you can go to eat without having to talk to anyone
Write about how her eyes are the color of the way she takes her coffee
Write about how you feel driving passed her exit, and not getting off
Write about how your blood burns beneath your skin some nights and only cold metal will sooth it
Write about how your lungs feel like they’re filled with water, and you can’t breathe without someone sleeping next to you
Write about how some days your hands shake so bad, you have to stay home.
Write about how your scars look like tally marks and how you wish you could erase them.
Write about how you feel empty, no matter how full you are
Write about how the thought of winter slowly approaching terrifies you
Write about how you’re aging but not actually growing up
Write about how you want to be better, for yourself and for others
Just. *******. Write.