"I am not depressed enough"

she says,

"I knew I was getting better

when I starting singing again"

 

so I stop humming along to the noise spilling out of my radio.

I wait for the sadness to crawl up my throat,

to turn the melodies into a death wish,

to burn in my lungs like ash

 

when it fails to come,

I relax.

maybe I am getting better too.

 

he says,

"I knew I was getting better

when I started hanging out with my friends again"

 

when they text me,

I agree to come to their place.

swallow the anxiety,

count back from ten before ringing their doorbell,

and tell their parents that I ate before I came over

even though I'm fucking starving

 

because if I eat, I get full.

if I get full, I get tired.

and if I get tired, I get emotional.

if I get too emotional, I might tell them that I lied.

I've only been clean for 2 days, not 2 years.

 

so I swallow the anxiety,

and pretend it's easy to talk to people I've known for a lifetime,

sit on my hands so they don't shake.

 

when I realize that I can fake it for a day,

I relax.

maybe I am getting better too.

 

she says that she knew she was getting bad again

when her 2am and 2pm felt the same.

 

but I don't know if that's true for me,

because I usually remember 2am as tears,

blood,

and telling myself not to text anyone,

not to wake anyone up.

 

I am just a burden.

 

and I sleep through 2pm,

even when my mom tells me not to.

 

he says that he knew he was getting bad again

when he stopped smiling.

 

my smile is tattooed onto my face.

"smile, dammit. don't let them know you're miserable."

if I don't smile, I cry.

 

my laugh is both a mix tape and a ticking time bomb,

my words are daisies but my thoughts are death

 

and I don't know if I am depressed enough.

 

if I quit my meds 'cold turkey', I'll start feeling suicidal again.

why is that thought so appealing?

knowing what I want is better than

not knowing if I'm good enough.

good enough?

bad enough.

 

am I bad enough?

will I be kicked out of this club?

I say I want to get better,

but the truth is,

my depression makes me feel like I'm apart of something

while also making me feel like I am nothing.

 

am I depressed enough?

 

depression is white girls crying in their bathtub.

depression is not singing along to your favorite song.

at least, that's what the poets say.

 

what do I say?

 

it is knowing that one day I will die,

but also knowing that I want to be the one who ends it.

 

depression is nothing and everything,

a secret party that I did not ask to be invited to.

 

it is wanting to try a cigarette

because my doctor said that cutting is an addiction,

but if I quit, I need something else to be addicted to

 

depression is fire,

and I cannot make fire feel afraid.

 

it is punching my bedroom wall until my knuckles bleed,

because even though the door is wide open,

I am still trapped inside of my head

 

depression is being terrified of murderers,

not because I'm afraid to die,

but because I need to end it myself.

 

I am not depressed enough.

 

I roll the windows down and scream the lyrics to my favorite song.

I laugh at all the right times.

I live, even when I want to die.

 

I relax.

maybe I'm getting better too.

This poem is about: 
Me

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