Poem – My Depression Tells Me

My Depression Tells Me

by Carly Suzanne

When my depression speaks, it’s in third person.
I don’t know whose voice it is, but I think it’s the same voice I used to call God that haunted my childhood,
the one who knew when I was sleeping, who knew when I was awake,
you better not doubt, you better not cry,
he knows when you’re sinning and he knows all your mistakes.
The voice I used to call the Holy Spirit who swallowed me whole, who wallowed in my being alone.
The voice I used to call the son, who set but won’t rise,
who ignores my cries for help and taunts me for my helplessness.
When my depression speaks, it’s in third person.

My depression tells me to rest on this metal shelf, no pillow, no blanket,
and it expects me to thank it while whispering, “you’re nothing’s” in my ear.

My depression tells me I could make use of this shoelace before the guard walk by with a cheese sandwich I choke down the same way I choke down my disgrace.

My depression tells me I could hang
faster than the guard would learn my name.
It tells me that six feet by eight feet by two feet that won’t take me to where I want to go are the dimensions of my reality: stuck.

My depression keeps me holed up in this cell when I should really just be holding myself.

I try to insist this relationship isn’t serious, but my depression shows me a map, spotted with all the times I stopped for it.

My depression tells me I take three steps back for it whenever it asks for it, but my depression doesn’t know it’s not consent if there’s an absence of a yes.

My depression overstays its welcome; it don’t know how long a season supposed to last;
it leaves so slow and comes so fast.

It shows me a barren field and asks why I never harvested that potential.
It tells me the illusion is real but keep it confidential, your suffering is inconsequential, and no one will believe you.

My depression tells me that I don’t have love, I receive pity; I don’t have beauty I have, “you’d be pretty—IF.”

My depression wants to keep me isolated, a lymphedema of the soul, weighted to keep me home, cracks in my skin that spider web and take over again.

When my depression speaks, it’s in third person. I don’t know whose voice it is.