it’s not supposed to be pretty, or poetic, it’s not bleeding roses or your vintage aesthetic. it’s not slim, and easily digestible. because sometimes, depression is just lying around the house all day, and wearing the same outfit until you can’t stand the feel of it on your skin.
sometimes it’s wilting yellow leaves, late nights, and tattered deadlines surrounding me at all sides. they’re closing in. and why is it, that no matter how hard i try, i always end up back here in the closet, with my skeletons and treasure troves?
or running for my life, until the clock strikes midnight and the cycle repeats anew. i talk in my sleep; dissect stories like butterfly wings. i don’t say i miss you.
just curl into myself like a scared little kid, and hide under the blankets, for years on end, waiting for happily ever after to find me. to recessitate my withered hopes and dreams with a perfect kiss.
because i just want the war to end. i want rippling green grass, and wounded fireflies, fluttering around my head like a crown. a cute white mini-dress, or whatever. and god, i know it’s cheesy, and pathetic.
but some cliché in my life is long overdue.