It has to be me - the only anti-depressant -
grinding gratitude journals into routines
like filtered coffee; churning endorphins
out of exercise; hash-tagging the days
of my challenges, as I
zone out
into self-help books, stacking up
like people's impatience:
"Pessimist."
(But I'm trying to morph my mind.)
"It's not my fault you're feeling this way."
(But I'm trying to morph my mind.)
Everything turns into a metaphor
because reality is too rough: sandpaper
smoothing out the veins on my heart
until I'm nothing but a lump
of nothingness inside.
So it has to be me, soullessly
hash-tagging anti-depressants;
churning out gratitude;
grinding through exercise
until I am nothing but an exotic,
coffee-coloured filter
on your Instagram feed,
a model minority
who's morphed her mind.
