1. The veins in my hands only pulsate when I’m dehydrated, a sense of self-induced realization through self-deprivation.
The thing about depression is that there’s no way to run from it.
It lives in a concave camel hump on your back, pinching nerves and stressing shoulders. It breaths in your ear, sucking in oxygen and letting out nothing, nagging in the back of your skull.
It's the slow beating of fist on bone,
thump thump thumping until it’s all you ever listen for.
2. Coffee tastes better sweetened, so stevia and oat milk it is. Cream weighs too heavy on me in the early morning; it slips out of my stomach lining and settles in the pouch were I keep a little something extra.
I’ve been told thick thighs run in the family. So do cankles and thin hair, big noses and bad teeth. Genetically, I’m predisposed to dislike the things I’ve looked at for 24 years.
I dig for ribs under cold pasta and some late night M&Ms. I have nightmares about being trapped in saran wrap; someone could confuse my tenderized thighs for sausages and try to eat them.
My body is small but carries so much weight; nothing it touches feels right.
3. Pressing on a closed wound brings everything to the surface; the infection will come out eventually. For now, it pays rent in a basement apartment under your skin, purple and pulsating and waiting.
I dream of your walnut wrist bones cracking under my lower back, tossing and turning as I sleep off the broken glass in my throat. You talked too much, making space for goodbyes and leaving no room for reasons to stay.
Wake up still thinking of you; everything stays the same.
Comments