When a Boy Gives Me Advice for My Depression

I don’t understand how you think 

that you can give advice 

without understanding my battle.

You state what I know, 

and what I felt

aren’t possible.

Don’t you know?

I am impossible.

My imagination is so vivid,

sometimes I want to escape

into it, and ride my thoughts

like unicorns.

Other times, I want to shut it

out, hearing ghosts of my past 

screaming at me, and asking

why I didn’t do it better.

I see demons in a person’s

smile, interactions laced

with feigned friendliness,

and the constant question:

whether the colors that surround

them, taking up their negative

spaces, are correlated, in any way,

to their basic alignment.

Mine is a bright green today,

swirling around me like a sentient

fog, a miasma of tendrils that curl,

and twist into pleasing, circular

shapes.

Telling me that I cannot have

been, when I was, is denial,

and what you deny me

is acceptance, and I’ve

told you before that it’s 

more important than 

understanding.

I try to understand myself. I feel it first, 

and then discover: I am happy, sad,

angry, emboldened, giddy, somber,

guilty, or any other multitude of emotions

in combinations that often contradict,

or strengthen one end of the spectrum,

or the other.

I reflect and try to understand the

cause of my stirring, and probe at memories

to see if I can understand how I might 

start to fix it. 

And you ask me if I was still her.

Yes. I am her, she is me, we together

make up who I am. I won’t pretend 

I fully understand in my creation of characters,

who they are or what they mean to me,

but when you ask me if it was her,

or if it was me through her,

I say both. 

You don’t get to tell me 

it isn’t possible. Any artist puts

themselves into their work, even

when they have no part in the story,

it just happens that way.

I learn about myself 

through what I create:

reflect, edit, reshape,

understand, and make better.

Medicated

There is a ringing, a pitch unheard,

it stays between my ears to squirm

inside my head. Unnerving consequence

of a lucid mind. Slowed thought

like thinking through peanut butter,

and suspended emotions, but 

long-winded.

I’d run from feeling, but instead

crave the social enigma that stays lost

to me. 

Volunteer for functions I don’t quite 

understand or feel welcome at,

fail at small-talk,

be told to go relax.

Much of my day passes through

a spectrum of confusion,

undertones of inadequacy.

Is a sound mind to be thus polluted?

If only slowed, my feelings are still

what they were, no evidence of change.

I abhor the slowness of each sour note,

once at a pace I danced to, 

now I struggle to crawl

out of bed again.

There is no end to this ringing.

It opens every cell in a split moment 

of roiling pain and guilt.

I tamper with my wording again 

and again, to no avail.

Sound convoluted in one sentence,

and disjointed in the other.

How many times to revise,

and make better something I didn’t

do correctly in the beginning.

Attoning as a life-long pursuit.

Ramblings of Insomnia

I’ve kept pace with a 

neon-blue clock that states

without compassion to my disorder

resounding ticking in my mind,

and perhaps it is solely to annoy

him that I do waste his precious 

time on idle things that 

matter only to me.

If within me rebels even 

the ticking of a clock,

matching the pace of me 

mid-fight with my demons,

perhaps it partly is

simply an illusion,

a distraction from ourselves, 

the struggles of our neighbors,

deluding of things that take

too much or aren’t worth it,

and what if we are truly 

never wasting any time?

Begin again 

and start the day anew.