Why Do We Romanticize Depression?

I am not a wilted flower

I never wanted to be tragically beautiful

There were just days when I’d forget I was alive

Because I’d numb myself and I couldn’t feel my heartbeat

I liked having proof that I wasn’t dead already

That there was blood flowing through my veins

And I liked my lips clinging to cigarettes like a deadly promise

I became addicted to the sensation of a scorched esophagus

I preferred breathing in burning oxygen

I wanted my lungs to become used to hell

I was living through life

Made of more scar tissue than skin

And I didn’t care

My lips tasted like I had a fling with a reaper

Like I made a habit out of French kissing death

And I made sure no one ever knew this

Because the one person who ever found out just said that it didn’t matter

Because I wasn’t damaged enough to need help

Not damaged enough

As if it was some kind of contest

As if I was crying for attention

But she was dead wrong

Because if there were any witnesses

How could it be the perfect crime?




About savannahlyn

I write to articulate what my tongue cannot
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