No One Would Know
Not one person would know, but my depression smells like raspberries.
Well, the perfume does anyway,
The sickly sweetness of the perfume my most attempted defense against the thoughts I try to keep at bay.
The times I want my heart to stop taste like hazelnut iced coffee with whipped cream and Waffle House toast,
Laughing with the people I want to stay alive for the most.
My headaches feel like thunder in my ears,
The thoughts racing so quickly I can’t think further than stopping the tears.
My breakdowns light up cigarettes and send hurtful words in the clouds of smoke.
I never want to be someone else so badly as I do when I’m talking to myself.
I give a little of my heart to everyone who breaks it and I still have love for people I should hate.
I can never stay solidly angry for long because I always find myself thinking of something I’ve done wrong.
I’m tired,
A kind of tired that can’t be slept off.
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