To You.

To You. There is no more locked up thoughts, it's now on the page. On the screen. Your love, your hatred, your power. Right there. For you, from you, to you.


2. Dear Depression

Dear Depression,

You haven’t paid your rent in a while; two years in fact. I’ve been leaving you continuous white sheets marked with capitalised words screeching for you to go, but you seem to have an invisible waste bin that you toss them in and they disappear from existence. Is that where you threw my happiness? Is it inside the gaping mouth of a disposal truck, mashed up with soggy takeaway boxes and lumpy baby food or do I still have the chance to get it back despite the crumpled appearance?

When the night slams my eyelids shut and gets me high on daydreams and nostalgia, I secretly hope that when I wake, you’ll be gone. That you won’t be pinning my arms to the bed sheets, whispering flaws into my ears as I stare in the mirror and holding a pessimistic grey screen over my eyes everywhere I stumble. My dreams remind me of the old times, the new times, the futuristic times, and I seem to have an undeniable smile on my face which somehow symbolises I am only happy in a land of make-believe. When I wake up and my lips are lying stick-thin, I see you’re still there. I can still feel the fingerprints of your hands as you grip me tighter to the swimming white fabric, still hear your voice husky with morning and hatred, still blink with grey and see with darkening colours. The only things that seem to be in colour are the pills locked away in the medicine cabinet. I see those. I see the red and blue and white and yellow containers and lock-safe lids that can’t keep shaking hands out. When I’m in my mode; my mode of scars and screams and suicide, you guide my thoughts to that cupboard. I close my eyes and picture swallowing them: one, two, ten, fifteen. Down my throat, burning and choking, with a letter in one hand and the other around my neck.

I also see the cars. Red, blue, black, silver, green. They go past as my feet slam the road’s mixture and I remind myself that the trauma of my flying body on a windshield could have permanent, damaging effects on a driver. So throwing myself as if I were a rag doll in front of a vehicle is an appalling idea. I see blood in colour too. Ruby, dripping from fingertips and blades. I’m yet to see my own crystal scarlet from a knife from my skin. I wish, and I try with the tears making my fingers slippery and blurring my vision but to no avail. Part of me screams keep on going, part of me whispers there’s a reason. I ignore both.

When people say to talk about you, it gets hard. It isn’t as simple as breathing, exhaling words. You control my jaw with clenched fists. You blame me when I try to blame you and convince myself you cannot be used as an excuse. I tell people that maybe you aren’t all that bad, maybe I can just usher you out the broken mess of a house my body is by myself. People buy that, people absorb those words and I cannot tell whether they simply cannot bring themselves to battle or if they truly believe it. People believe such lies nowadays; “you’ll get better”, “it won’t be long”, “I’ll be there”. Ha! You told me all those years back, when you slipped through my eight-year old tears, that these crying fits were regular. I thought you left, but you endlessly stayed and now I can’t push you away. My hands are snapped with my efforts, just like my razors, and now all I can do is fall back into your arms.

People imagine your arms to be cold, but they’re warm. Some nights they feel as comforting as my pillow, others they are like sheets of ice and I find myself sliding as I try to clamber out of this manic state you encase me within. You are the melody and the wrong notes, you are the killer and you are the victim. I find myself forever forgiving and forgetting, then remembering with my arms shaking. The nights are meant to be filled with darkness, shadows, frights but to me the darkness is so warming, I want to be a shadow. Shadows possess no limbs, organs, just empty black space that dance with gracious movement yet cannot crumble. Shadows cannot inhabit you.

So I say this to you, Depression. This is your final notice to rid yourself of sleeping on my ribs and tearing up my heart. This is the final time you will get to make the silence too loud and darkness too inviting. If you don’t go, I will tape up my hands and force you until I shatter into dust. You cannot control my voice, my body, any longer. I am freeing myself from your endless ropes and soon I will have you crumpled in a corner, choking on your own self-hatred. This is my break away. This is my liberation. This is me to you.

With as much hatred as there are sand on the beaches,

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