Depression is not black and white filters and silhouettes shrouded by willow trees like ivory wigs. It is not half embered cigarettes and cans of monster. It is not piles of chalky pills labelled "morgue". It is not flowers in tangles of hair. It is not eyeliner perfectly smudged down the crevasse of a protuberance cheekbone. It is not swirls of red in a bathtub like an art exhibition. It is not the scent of lavender seeping through your pillow. It is the scent of festering flesh and sweat and rusted blood and stale alcohol. It is stitches holding your skin together, taut and swollen and painful. It is early morning snorting speed then going straight back to the cocoon of your mind. It is the fear of death. It is vomiting and fainting and bloating and shit and piss and salivating too much because the medication makes your lips droop like a hungry dog. It is eating too much. It is filling the ache with packets of cereal and loaves of mouldy bread. It is eating so little that your fingernails are purple and your legs collapsing against your weight. It is not thigh gaps and cold coffee. It is not small, dainty wrists poking out of rolled up sleeves of oversized jumpers, revealing the perfectly chipped nail polish. Depression is not beautiful.