depression

some call it a blue elephant with a trunk that chokes every ray of confidence.

some call it a reason for not wanting to get out of bed. because the warmth of a blanket is soothing for the frost bites outside.

some call it a void that makes your black hole of a heart a fucking rusted clock.

some call it the scars that knives leave when they cut apples and wrists open.

i call it: walking down the hall and pretending that everything is okay. i call it smiling at strangers when what you actually want to do is constantly cry. i call it pretending to talk to people when your parents enter your room. so that they don’t think as if you’re alone. i call it getting out of bed, because if you stay in bed your sister will think you’re depr— i call it never calling it by it’s name in the first place. i call it denying it exists at all. i call it something i feel when i crawl in bed and hope that when tomorrow comes it miraculously goes away. i call it ‘i’m fine’ or ‘i’m great’ or simply a hello when all i want to say is goodbye.

i call it a feeling that never goes away even when you don’t feel anything. i call it what everyone calls it. i call it my mental illness: i call it that feeling that i hope you’d never feel. i call it: never letting yourself call it that in the first place.