depression poem

my name is ian

and i am a master costume maker

i make costumes so realistic i bet you cant see the depression wearing this boy

see i was born with a genetic defect

when i was young i found myself seeing familiarity in storm clouds

i could hear the heartbeats in thunder and confusion in lightning

i was born with the ability to respect death

i saw death as a state of being

most see death as a finale. an unknown to fear for sake of scaring the masses

death doesnt wear a black robe

death can wear a polo shirt and golf shorts as he takes one too many drinks and goes on a long drive into a shallow grave

death can wear nothing and kill masses in forms of gas leaks and chemicals

i was born with the ability to see death anywhere

but the place it scared me the most was the mirror

i could see urns burning in the reflection of my pupil and coffins buried in the bags under my eyes

i was always scared it meant one day i would kill someone.

i was born with a weapon

but the weapon had a manufacturer made problem

there are no returns in this store

so i had to handle the misfires

imagine my surprise when in 6th grade i realized why death seemed to be the only constant in my life

because i took a look in the mirror that day and realized i had already been killing a poor boy born with a defective sense of sadness and anger

this boy who wanted nothing more than to fit in

he wanted friends and for people to like him

middle school makes memories for all, but i dont think i could ever forget the day i wondered if dying would be better than handling these bullies

if dying would be better than handling these grades

if dying would be better than handling the feelings of disappointment your parents never actually gave you, but you gave yourself when you brought home discipline reports

if dying would be better

easier

my victim began wondering if you could feel comfort in razor blades

if a noose too tight could be mistaken for a bear hug

if pills tasted like the candy they looked like

when he looked in the mirror he saw 2 different people.

the victim and the killer

i remember the day he got that shocked look in his eyes when he realized it was the faces of depression

he ran to his mother

and told her about the bullies and the problems.

and he tried to slide it in at the last second

as if she wouldnt notice

his tongue let loose the worst nightmare a parent can hear

“mom. sometimes i think about suicide”

it took 2 hours of prying and pleading before this victim agreed to see a therapist

every tuesday

for 1 hour

after school

she would try to put the 2 halves of him back together.

tried to take the depression and the child and mix them carefully so that the victim could see his killer and learn to stop him every time

tried to make him realize life was worth living’

i was born with a toe tag

my time of birth could be mistaken for an autopsy report

i saw my own killer every time i closed my eyes or looked at the water

i let tears roll down my face hoping to cleanse myself of the demon that deems himself worthy to manipulate my mind

and make me feel inadequate in comparison to myself

it doesnt make sense because you can’t rationalize depression, you can only hope to realize the threat in the mirror,

before it breaks you into a million shattered pieces

and dares you to put them back together before the time left in your life runs out