dear you,

waking up next to you is probably the sickest shit god could’ve mustered up.

and somehow, i nestle next to you as if you are home,                             but
your breath reminds me that you are indeed, not home.

you’re more like a dilapidated shack hanging from my neck
with a tiny window scooped out of the side where gravity rests —
and all the shit that was and is and will become is frolicking at my front door.
muddy splotches of agony and guilt and sadness are burning through my fucking front door!

i am literally stuck from the inside-out,                                        understand.
much worse than anxiety. much more than compulsivity.
more than the walls that messed with me at the tender age of 4.
you are the hungriest motherfucker in the room.
chomping the little energy that resides just below my bosom,
licking my breast plate dry – there is no space for my own breath.

and i…                                               i am debilitated by your deliverance of evil upon my throat.

and i am often this dramatic, so there’s no need to apologize.

you suck all 8 hours of sleep from me in 1 second. halting me from escaping the bed at the sound of my alarm. instead, i hit snooze and crawl deeper into the shallow ditch you’ve made for me or if i’m really feeling like fuck-it-all, i hit stop and stare at the spot i’ve engrained out the window with these uzis that are my dark brown eyes.

wiping away every stain of positivity, i regress into the past day, and days and weeks and judge myself, or god-willing, judge you as if you are me. and there’s a cyclical monologue of all the things i should’ve did but didn’t do for whatever reason, and i spend yet another morning trying to dig myself from the warm spot as my body twists away to step one foot out in —
my own damn presence.

and again and again,                  half-dead and half-alive,                      i give you all of me,

                                                                                                                                  unwillingly and willingly.

signed,
a black girl living with depression

~~~
dear depression.jpg

for all the people of the world living with mental illness (diagnosed or undiagnosed). there are grey days and there are better days. live on and breathe that shit out.

nobody understands the awkwardBLACKgirl

excerpts from my new piece on cultural disconnect from my awkwardBLACKgirl perspective in sula x la liga’s zine.

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love,
jasmine simone