thoughts and feelings

They say depression stems from laziness and idleness.

I disagree.

Being busy and productive only masks an already broken state.

You drape a beautiful tablecloth over a battered table—the same one where you once tried to shoot yourself.

Your hand trembled with cowardice, and the bullet missed, shattering an expensive Chinese porcelain vase instead.

At least it was more valuable than your life, they whisper.

But I say it wasn’t.

When will you finally shut up?

With a smooth, mocking curtsey, you throw your hands behind your back and sigh.

Swans are such graceful creatures, you muse, they choose their partner for life.

I tell you to untangle the mess in your head before preaching about purity and choice.

But you’ll never hear me—you don’t want to hear.

The psychotherapist nods.

I already know what she’ll say.

Mom.

I glance at my watch.

Time is slow today, I remark, like a stale Soviet iris.

She smiles, scribbles something down.

Doesn’t laugh at my jokes.

They all stare at me so seriously.

Am I stupid? Or too smart?

I say I just know how to enjoy the little things.

Then I go home and cry at night, or force myself to sleep so I won’t think.

She hides behind her mask, never cured of that rotten sickness.

But so do I—playing the fool, the madwoman, so no one uncovers the truth.

I pulled you out, you insist. No?

Then you pulled yourself out.

I stay silent.

No one suspects she’s still here.

That no one was ever saved.

Because when you least expect it, she surges back, pounding at your ribs until you want to surrender and die.

Her weapon? A gnawing ache for something that never existed.