I write about having Stardust Scars and a poisoned tongue that tastes like wine and weed,
But really?
When it comes down to the aching moments,
When you're left with nothing but yourself,
And the truth...
It's ugly. It's all so ungodly ugly.
Broken in the dirt, left like a festering, soured wound.
It's ugly and it rips your chest open until it feels like you're being pushed under and tossed around by monstrous waves of emotion.
You feel like you're t r a p p e d inside your own body, no escape, no relief, just a weight that crushes your bones and leaves you alone.
No hope. No breath of air. No saving grace.
It's just your own mind screaming until tears gather in your eyes,
Your heart beating so fast is hurts between your ribs,
Your conciseness detached from sanity and feeling hopeless,
All you can to is cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and CRY AND HOPE TO WHO EVER WILL LISTEN THAT M A Y B E ONE DAY YOU'LL FEEL SAFE IN YOUR OWN BODY.
MAYBE ONE DAY YOU'LL BE ABLE TO ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE HAPPY WITHOUT THINKING "I'm going to plummet and cry myself into a migraine later"
MAYBE ONE DAY YOU'LL FEEL OKAY ENOUGH TO SMILE WITHOUT FLINCHING.
Maybe one day you won't sit there and be helplessly sobbing to your friend on the other line of the FaceTime call as she says "I wish I knew how to make this better for you. God I wish I could help."
Because fact is, no one can help. It's a root so deeply planted and entangled into your body that it may as well be your veins. It may as well be your nervous system. It may as well be the neurons firing inside your brain and the oxygen in your blood stream. No one can uproot that kind of system for you. All they can do is sit there and pluck at the buds peeking up at the surface, knowing they'll just be back tomorrow again. Knowing that it just comes back;
Every. Damn. Time.
Bystanders can only listen to you cry and hug you while the emptiness inside you swallows it all.
Bottom line is that it's ugly. It hurts everyday. It taints every moment. It swallows your entire being at night. And mostly... you're completely hopeless during it all, knowing that everyday you'll feel like your brain is on fire and your skin doesn't fit your body right.
Bottom line is that it's ugly and it's filled with pain and you're just possibly stuck in this for you're whole life.
Bottom line is that it's ugly, and it's deep, and its fucking painful, and it's not going away.
Bottoms line is that it's ugly and you're a slave to it.
Bottom line is that it's so fucking ugly.
No pretty poetry will make it better, you're just trying to fool yourself into thinking the pain doesn't hurt as much as it does.
YOU ARE READING
Depression Session
RandomHello, for the sake of names, you can call me Jaxin (not my actual name, but I always did love that one.) This is the storage shed for all my thoughts when I'm having one of my "sessions". This is my safe space for me the come and sort out what I'm...
