but this is mostly about me, about my mother, about how we were children and i still feel like we are
i know that we're messed up.
believe me, i know.
but you want to kill yourself
and i just want everything to stop hurting so much
and i could tell my mother.
i feasibly could.
but i won't.
i won't, because last time
the Make-Up Criminal was found out,
my mother shut herself out.
went on overdrive, tried to compensate,
it drove her mad.
and us other two,
Circus Focus and Air Queen
were left trying to not choke on the dust she left behind
i won't do that to my sisters,
one who swallows an antidepressant each morning
and the other who calls at midnight,
sobbing, about how she wants to come home.
i refuse to do what she unknowingly did to me.
i won't be the problem child,
because i can't handle that
and my father will just
give me the eternally disappointed look
i always seem to deserve.
just leave me to stagnate and wear away at my corners,
i can do this, i can,
i'll handle myself the way i always have,
i will not be folded into a crate,
bent at the knees to avoid being crushed,
wood layered over my skin until i am just a box,
nothing more than the word "contained",
mailed and stamped with the aggressively bright red words,
"handle with care"
there will come a day.
there will come many days,
but one in particular will arrive
to find me finally breaking,
tape snapping and cracks widening,
when i cannot hold my fragments together anymore
and i hold myself under no illusions.
i know that it lies in wait for me in the future,
and i figure the best i can do
is meet it halfway
with my body already patched up
and my bandages as solid as they can be.
i will be okay.
i guess that's the real kicker, isn't it,
knowing that i know that.
the thing separating myself from my past -
i used to be drowning in depression.
i couldn't see anything past the clouded horizon,
clotted mass of gray and stormy black,
but i know now that i will someday manage
to finally be completely free of depression.
i may never succumb to the cloying lure of happiness,
but i will, in the future, be alright.
when the skies thunder with the soothing repetition of rain,
and i've stopped self-medicating with the thin air of floating,
and the world has gone quiet again,
and my coping mechanisms are just habits, aren't unhealthy anymore -
don't worry about me, i'll be just fine.