Disclaimer:

This is not a poem,

Because my depression

is not,

was not,

and will never be

poetic.

 

I used to think

that my blood was paint,

and my skin was canvas.

That my scars were art,

and blades where my medium.

 

But my depression

is not romantic.

My illness

is  not a metaphor.

My self-destruction

is not poetic

 

And I'm so fucking sick

of people turning me -

my mental illness -

into a fashion,

to be worn and discarded

whenever they please

 

Because this isn't glamorous

Or enigmatic

Or trendy

And however you twist it

and throw around pretty words

like

"Internal calamity"  or

"Existential crisis,"

THIS MISERY IS NOT ART.

 

DEPRESSION IS NOT A STATEMENT.

It is a question of

life or death?

breath or stillness?

body or corpse?

 

And in the end,

Blood is just blood.

Skin is just skin.

And these scars are just

remnants of a time

I so foolishly thought it

was okay to exist

without

life.

 

This is not a poem.

Depression

is not,

was not,

and will never be

poetic.