My mother told me that you can’t cure depression,
that taking pills wouldn’t fix me and taking six
instead of the prescribed two definitely wasn’t
going to speed up the process. But I met a boy
who tasted better than Prozac. He made it easier
to get out of bed. He kissed me like I was
alive, like I wasn’t empty, like maybe there was
something left inside me. He made my bones
ache less when he touched me. He made it okay.
When my world was crashing down around me,
he picked up all the pieces. When I stopped
breathing and tried to tear open my wrists to
find the last little bits of happiness left in my
veins, he was there to lace me back together.
But he left and I haven’t washed my hair in three
weeks. My mother was right.
Some nights I think about dying and some nights I think about living till I break and I didn’t know that you could cry so hard that your heart stops bleeding and still wake up the next morning until I met you and I know that kissing you will probably kill me, bury bullets beneath my skin and spit poison into my veins but I know I’ll kiss you anyway and sometimes shaky knees and feeling like you’re going to throw up and staying up so late you get sick is love and not pain but sometimes the teeth you feel when you’re kissing and the way the red of the flowers he brought you matches the red in the sink and the way the butterflies in your stomach make you feel like dying is pain and not love and either way I never know when to say goodbye so maybe you should just stay one more night
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