my depression is not
skinny girls
with thigh gaps
and buns in their hair
sipping coffee in bed
wearing oversized sweaters.
my depression
is having my room like fucking a mess
because I really don’t feel
like cleaning it.
my depression
is forgetting to eat,
or take a shower,
or shave my legs,
or even not caring about it.
my depression
is failing all my subjects
because I can’t grab a book and concentrate
why would I get a future I don’t want to be alive to live?
my depression
is never wanting to hang out again.
my depression
is crying so much alone at night
that I can’t cry anymore later
because there are no tears left.
my depression
is not being able to stop cutting.
my depression
is having to stand my mom
entering to my room, yelling
that I’m a selfish, awful daughter.
and reminding me everything I suck at
and why I should be dead.
My depression
is not beautiful.
Don’t romanticize my mental illness.
because that’s what it is.
and illness.
and it doesn’t feel beautiful.
and I’m really trying.
so
please.
Stop romanticizing mental illnesses.
