For The People Who Wonders What It Is Like to be Depressed

I am bright and stained,

I wonder, that if I tell- their minds will wander.

I hear my memories release from their crumbling chains and rush to meet the troubled surface.

I want to be free. To have the right to breathe. To never have that crushing weight that falls on you the moment your eyes open in the morning; the weight that falls on you when people complain about their perfect lives, the same weight that causes you to cut so deep that your arm is so covered in blood that you can't see it anymore.  

I am bright and stained.


I pretend that the past is only a dream. But it’s not.

I feel haunted. Only one slip-up: a line from a book, or a simple toy will drown me in my own sorrow. A never ending sleep; contentment scraping past my callused fingertips.

I touch the stars; they burn, tearing at the seams of my torment. Releasing my pain- if only for a minute.

I worry that I will never breathe; that the chains will never let loose.

I cry in an attempt to wash away the sins. I ask to be free, but if I asked for that, I wouldn’t want to fight for anything. What would I be if I didn’t fight for the frightened child inside?

I am bright and stained.


I understand that I am not alone. I understand that it’s better now. But that weight: it never goes away.

I say that it’s not my fault. But everytime I open up my mouth, a choked gurgle comes out, reminding me that I was just a puppet. The only thing keeping me quiet was a kid’s meal and a 99 cent toy.

I dream that I will have plenty to live for; but what is there if the only thing I feel is the weight that makes your head pound, the one that makes your eyes feel like they will burst, the one that makes you feel like your brain and your body are two separate things. The same one that pins you down- the one that intends to make you stronger; but only succeeds in cutting off your arms and legs and expects you to swim.

I try to believe that the lock around my heart will one day be opened. The pressure will be lifted. But what good will that be if you constantly have that third person hanging around? The voice that smashes and grinds every insecurity you’ve ever had in your face. They tell you, “There’s a reason you're not good enough. You aren’t even half as pretty as these girls, you’re not half as thin, you are not half as smart, you can’t even blink as beautiful as these girls. Compared to them you look like trash. No wonder no guy even takes a second look at you.”  And you start to believe it. You believe that the closest you will ever get to being happy is the painful but hopeful face you see in the mirror. The face that puts on a smile even though there is a war battling on and on and on. I may stand there quietly, but inside I scream, “Can anybody see that I am hurting?! Can anybody look past my counterfeit smile and see my sorrow?”

I hope all the pain pays off one day but God only knows because I sure as hell don’t.

I am bright and stained.

This poem is about: 
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