By D_S_Dodie
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I like to take a feeling
And hold it in my palm,
Squeeze it so tightly
Until I know exactly what that feeling is.
Love feels squishy.
Like clay.
It's messy,
But fun to play with.
When I squeeze, it slips through the gaps between my fingers
And falls to the floor;
It falls to the dirty, filthy floor.
Happiness is hard, smooth.
It looks like glass.
Clear as the sky.
It's hard to see it when it's there
Because it blends in so easily with the rest of the world,
However you always know when it's gone.
I squeeze happiness so tightly
It shatter in my hands.
It's ragged pieces slice my skin, drawing blood;
Depression.
It is in my blood; in my brain
And it tells me to squeeze my emotions.
"Squeeze them until it's gone and all you can feel is me."
Depression is a liquid.
I don't squeeze depression.
When it leaks out of me I press a smile to my skin to hold it in.
A smile is a dirty rag;
A bandaid to hide the damage.
Depression stains my smile sometimes.
It always has a way of leaking out.
When depression leaks out I squeeze onto tired.
Tired almost feels like love
Except when you squeeze, you squeeze forever.
Tired is like quicksand.
It pulls you in without hope of ever getting out.
Everyone knows tired.
So when they ask me "what's wrong?"
I smile and say "I'm just tired."
And they nod because they know what it is.
They know that trying to free yourself from tired
Only makes you more tired.
Sometimes when there's too much depression
And smile and tired has both fallen to the dirty, filthy floor
I reach out to hope.
You can't squeeze hope.
You can only reach for it.
Hope is like air
And whenever I breath it in
I exhale the pollution that runs within my body.
Depression hates hope, so it tells me to pick up love.
Love is our new hope,
But love is dirty and filthy,
But depression says this is better.
When love is like this we don't get hurt.
So, I squeeze onto love
With the hand that happiness sliced.
I feel alone eventhough love is held so tightly in my palm.
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Depression say it's okay
Because squeezing onto this dirty love
Is better then squeezing onto reality.
Reality is a rock.
Sometimes it sharp and ragged while other times it's smooth.
Reality takes up different forms.
Depression tells me to stay away.
Reality screams that it's suicide to stay away.
Suicide. . .
Suicide has no shape.
It has no form.
Suicide isn't anything but a thought.
It hides beneath the warmth of depression.
It is this toxic that attaches itself to your brain
Until that's all you can think.
Suicide. . .is a bird.
Yes, a bird.
Sometimes suicide likes to follow me around.
Its shadow stays within range,
Its wings flapping so loudly from above.
Sometimes I stretch my fingers up to suicide,
Begging to know what it feels like,
Begging to be swept up into the air
And taken into the dark clouds above,
But then reality hits me
And I remember that I am afraid of birds.
Reality hurts.
Depression leaks out of the open wound,
I pick up smile and press the dirty cloth to my skin.
You ask what's wrong.
I reach for tired,
But your hand finds a way into mine.
I look up into my own reflection.
I feel my soft skin,
Feel the warmth; the heat of my touch.
I remember that I'm awake. I'm alive.
I remember that crying feels good sometimes.
I remember that. . .
I like to take a feeling
And hold it in my palm,
Watch it grow like a flower
Until I know exactly what that feeling is.
And once it's grown,
If I like it, I'll stick the flower in my hair
And if I don't like it. . .
I'll let it go.
Dedicated to D_S_Dodie