In my poem, sadness is not a synonym for depression because I only felt numb and I never really cried.

My anxiety tried to control everything around me

Am I too late? Too early? Can I go home now?

I tried telling it to shut the hell up because I’m trying to live and it’s really hard already.

There were times when I wanted to die in between the breaths and cries of everyone who tried to tell me “it gets better”.

But it wasn’t until later that I realized that the “it” is not the world or society, but me, I get better. It’s not that easy.

Because depression isn’t about how many pill bottles you’ve opened it’s about the scars left in your heart that will never fully heal or the wrinkles in your brain where hope is spread too thin.

You can’t erase those scars or iron over the wrinkles no matter how many times you move back and forth over and over they just stay the same.

The bags under my eyes are evidence of all the sleepless nights where I tried to forget how to breath.

But I still remember that there are thousands of ways to kill myself, but not one that wouldn’t make my mother cry.

And there were times when I wanted to grab the closest razor and sash holes into the universe and watch things fall apart.

But instead, I let my mind bleed with thoughts of stars and moons and I wrote them all down.

Because there’s room in space for poetry. I will get better.

And the sky is really beautiful right now. And I know that I am often sad but there are moments when I love this life and I adore all the oxygen in my lungs when I say “thank you. I love you”.

I still feel numb sometimes. And I still worry about falling into the cracks and slipping into a black hole to disappear.

But instead of changing who I am and the body this atmosphere crafted, I paint galaxies in the eyes of others, hoping they see the light at the end of the tunnel that leads to the sun.

I’ll wave to them and call out, “I’m better now.”