Depression creeps up on you.
It does not knock politely on the door
It invites itself in,
Pulls up a chair,
And gets comfortable.
It gets acquainted with your worst memories,
And pals around with your weaknesses.
It leaves a bad taste in your mouth,
Like the sour bile you swallow down
When everyone and everything around you
Is nothing more than a reminder
Of why you fell apart in the first place.
Their sympathy does not make you feel shiny and new,
No matter how much you want it to.
Depression is not meant to be romanticized.
It is not lovely to feel broken.
Do not envy those who are not sure if they will feel whole again.
Do not put heartbreak on a pedestal and worship it for everyone to see.
This gut-wrenching feeling serves no purpose.
It sits at the one, now empty chair,
Rocking back and forth
At the far end of the dinner table.
It makes black and white photos
Seem more appealing
Than the bright color they once offered up.
Depression writes, “help”
On your forehead
With invisible ink—
So that only those who truly look,
Can read it.
