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(getting fucked by my depression)

there is no largeness inside of me today. there is only a mass of past pieces that have never really gone away. together, they make up a scaly, abrasive thing that grips me suddenly and pulls me into bed roughly. they chafe and cut and leave me short of breath. there is no time to cry, only a perpetual swelling inside of me.


it promises relief, but we all know how promises made in bed end.

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each time i find myself creating new love is another time that i learn i never really lost it. it exists in me forever, pushing the boundaries of my heart until i am heavy and empty at the same time.

i deserve the love i want. i deserve clarity and certainty. the next time i fall in love, i won’t need to convince myself of it. it will just be the plain truth. i won’t need to write roundabout prose

no one’s perfect but you are very good

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