This Was A Poem Before My Depression Killed It

2015-06-11 00:26 AM

They told me not to dwell in the past,
bluntly in voices of normal people -
people that have never visited the abyss,
and especially not been forced to live here.

The pain will go away, they promise me,
as if they knew what it was like
to live in every definition of the word "Pain"
every single second of every single day.

They speak as if they know what it is like,
because they had mild insomnia for three days.
It's not the same, because I cannot sleep.
It is impossible. Something so elementary, and taken for granted.

But it is literally physically impossible for me to sleep.
What I can do, however, is lose consciousness.
But that require medications, no matter the kind,
or exhaustion from being awake so long that I collapse.

So when anyone tells me that
they understand how it feels to be in my shoes,
the demons in my head laugh at me
for being blessed with "friends" so arrogant.

Never tell me that you have any clue
what it is like to live in this body.
This body that never stops aching,
that can never fall asleep.

This body, that never looks
like I want it to, this body that
makes me avoid mirrors
because I hate myself too much.

This is not a poem anymore.
This is a decree to anyone who will listen.
Stop insulting me by suggesting you know anything
about what it is like to be me.

Stop insulting me by speaking of hope,
because there is no hope. I can never be free.
This isn't a matter of attitude, sickness never is.
So don't tell me it's gonna get better.

Just stay by my side, and listen
long enough that you might be able
to slightly imagine what the abyss
and oblivion of all wishes looks like.

Because I was born into a defect body,
a body that has stolen my happiness
and hidden it deep in the embrace
of all the happy memories I once had,

the memories of times when it wasn't so bad.
The memories of a life worth living.
The memories of a world that wasn't poisonous,
the memories that Life and People decided to murder
and bury in a shallow grave surrounded by dead trees,

those memories of a time when living
wasn't the same thing as suffering,
because Life and People decided
that even my memories of ever being happy
isn't worthy of a tombstone,
and my love for living didn't even get
a decent funeral.