present me with a flower crown
weaved with daisies and dandelions
hold my hand and call me a monarch
so i can call you mine

infect me with your angelic laugh
paint my face with your smile that glows brighter than the galaxy
remind me what its like
to feel the tendrils of love wrapped around me

there were pores in my heart
i craved for something to fill the wounds
so i sat you down and asked you to be mine
a girl who i can fall in love with who will hold me tight

console me until the pit is filled
and watery lakes have been cemented
but i was too late, i suppose
and again, i am alone

Depression is hard to understand. The dictionary naively refers to it as, "feelings of severe despondency and dejection." But what does the dictionary know about depression? I think depression is more complicated than that. But I don't quite know what that consists of. I've been trying to figure it out for months now, and I just can't seem to understand. I don't know what depression is, but I can tell you what it's not.

Depression is not polite. Depression doesn't knock before he barges in. He just lets himself in, unannounced and unexpected, and leaves me gasping for what little air is left in the room.
Depression isn't clean. He doesn't tidy up after he makes a mess. He comes into my life like a hurricane, and leaves me to pick up the crumbled pieces of my rubbled life.
Depression isn't moral. He steals my happiness and kills my spirit. He doesn't abide by any common rules or laws, he makes his own rules and I have to play by them.
Depression isn't popular. The only "friends" he has are his victims. He drags me away from everyone who used to love me, and leaves me isolated in a cold, dark place.
Depression isn't respectful. He claws his way into the lives of so many genuine people and drives them to the brink of insanity. He has no regard for my thoughts or my feelings, stomping all over me until there's nothing decent left to salvage.
Depression isn't creative. He tells you everything as it is and makes you see all of the terrible things poisoning the world. He doesn't sugarcoat the truth, no matter how much it hurts, and he helped me clearly see even my smallest of flaws.
Depression isn't nice. He calls me ugly and tells me I'm worthless. The words he whispers ring in my ears: "**** yourself, **** yourself, **** yourself."

It's hard to define depression. It doesn't fit into a small box. I've practically driven myself crazy trying to figure out what it is and why this is happening to me. I don't understand depression, and no matter how hard I try to define it, I always fall short. I don't know if depression can ever be defined. While I try aimlessly to define the undefinable, depression ruthlessly takes advantage of me. I can try as much as I'd like, but I don't define depression, depression defines me.

by answering messages
i shouldn’t
and hoping for things
i can’t have.

she's here,
   in the photograph on my desk,
but not here at all.
   she's there with me
   frozen in a moment
   before it all slipped away.

i trail
   my fingers
      over the glass,

and wonder if it was ever real.
the way we were,
   before the knife went in.
   before she twisted it
   and let me bleed out
   instead of offering
   a hand.

i can’t shake the feeling
      that she’s still here,
             though she never will be again.

"You're too skinny",
says my love
just as the dawn
breaks through
the window shades.

The seconds
turn into sobs.
With every tear
another bone
protrudes.

All:
cheekbones,
hipbones
and ribs.
My rings
slip off my fingers,
jeans slide down,
the numbers
on the scale
decrease;
these moments,
a triumph.

There's no
stopping her,
no turning away.
She's taken over;
demanding:
SMALLER THAN SMALL.

I answer with:
obsession,
body checking;
an overpowering
need
to be weightless.

I close the door
on him
and the silly ideas
of getting well.
Turning to her,
we hold fragile hands;
I whisper,

"Together, till the end."

this is because i am...
I am a artist
I am a poet
I am a cutter
I am a starver
I am a mess of scars
And broken pieces
But the problem is
I am me
When I look in the mirror
All I see is a mistake
A little mess
Of pain And starving
And the scars all along my body
A problem
A smudge on humanity
But that's who I am
I guess I have to accept that

if i carved my pain
into my skin,
if i starved myself
into nothing,
if i made a graveyard
of my body,
would you believe me then?

tell me,
how much of me
must i destroy
before you see
i'm already gone?