sometimes I kiss people I shouldn’t kiss and let them unbutton my jeans sometimes I leave English class without asking and walk in angular circles until I can hear the blood rushing under my skin sometimes I run until I can’t breathe sometimes I sit in the rain sometimes I sleep for six hours in the middle of the day
sometimes I drive too fast and listen to my music so loud that it hurts sometimes I drink until everything goes black and I don’t remember talking about you all night (even though I do)
sometimes I cry about books and about people who died hundreds of years ago sometimes I don’t cry even though I want to more than anything sometimes I ignore the people I love sometimes hold myself to keep everything in because you are not here to do it
sometimes I think I’m alive sometimes I think I probably never will be”
i. I used to take showers five times a day, wholeheartedly believing that depression is something that harsh soap bars and scalding hot water can wash out of your hair, a layer you can simply peel off your skin like the orange rinds I used to love chewing on while watching meteor showers.
ii. I stopped looking people in the eyes when I turned 12 and started gathering water in my mouth to put out the fires in my lungs because it’s hard to wake up when sadness is like a burning elephant sitting on your chest.
iii. My mother heard me crying in the bathroom a week after I turned 16 and found me folded over like an origami piece on the tile floor with my face buried in between my knees.
iv. When I finally looked up at her from behind the curtain of hair that I stopped cutting a few years back, she finally discovered why my great-grandmother kept mistaking me for her: sadness just seemed to hide itself in our DNA.
v. As she combed through my tear-soaked hair,
she held my toothpick-thin frame &
rocked me back and forth, whispering this too shall pass until I fell asleep to the sound of her prayers.