I

live in a labyrinth

of

words and crooks,

hanging in cages

I

carelessly overlook.

Escaping the

paralyzing eyes,

I

cross a

web of lies.

Bundled at the

core of the glossy

web remains a

knife.

I

turn and sigh.

My back is fine.

The River Of Time

washes away,

My solitude

is in

peril!

I

wander the

labyrinth

a little

more.

I

stumble

across a

blackhearted widow

crawling about.

I

turn and sigh.

My back is fine.

I

wander the

wondrous abyss,

despite the gushing clock.

I

stroll for

seconds, and

duck and dive the

hours.

My past

is dying out.

I

sit on

this conspicuous

bench.

In Eden

I

flip through words

which float above

my pneumatic breath.

I

cease and let out

a humble puff

upon this masterful

bench.

The last honest gasp

it seems I’ll have.

I

look down at my chest.

My bloody vest!

I

turn and sigh.

My back is fine!

I live alongside a bear and a bee.

It can be terribly inconvenient at times. The bee I find more bearable; it just wants to protect me, aiming sharp stings at my fingertips when I reach for something new, something exposed or exciting. I feel its furry legs as it pads carefully along my collarbone, a sensation as constant as breathing, as the beat of my heart, which races so frantically when the bee approaches. It's a silent warning not to get too close, not to go too far, the stinger always posed over sensitive flesh. Sometimes, when I sit still too long, I feel the prod of the sharp tip against my neck, not deep enough to puncture, to hurt, but enough to force me to my feet and into action. At night, the bee buzzes in my ear, and I have no choice but to stay unblinkingly awake, letting the sound fill me. It doesn't want me to forget, after all. If I forget, I make the same mistakes again and again, so I have to remember. The bee understands that, so it buzzes away.

The bear, on the other hand, I don't understand at all. Some days, I awaken to a pressure on my chest, far heavier than the bee. The bear lies on top of me, its fur pressing me into the bed, smothering me until I'm gasping for breath, unable to move, to escape. Other days, the bear is nowhere to be seen when I wake up, and I stretch, yawn, rise, but I can hear its wet, growling breaths just out of sight. I go about my day cautiously, waiting for the inevitable moment when the bear will spring from the shadows and slam me to the ground, whatever activity I was doing forgotten as I abandon all thought but that of continuing to draw breath. At times the bear is angry, baring sharp teeth at me, at everyone. It frightens me. Other times, it's sad in the way only an animal can be, eyes staring blankly, light gone from them. I want to feel sympathy for it. I do. But all I feel is apathy.

I want to hate the bear and the bee. I want to. I try to hate them, but I can't, because I understand them. I understand the anxiety of new things, of staying still. I understand the depression that weighs heavy upon you like a living thing, that growls when threatened, that bares its fangs at others even as it desperately wishes to be loved. The bear, the bee, and I have become unwilling friends, comrades. Sometimes, when the bear rumbles deep in its chest, I stroke its wiry fur, and its breathing evens out. Sometimes, when the bee buzzes about my head in a panic, I offer it sugar water, and it calms for a bit.

I guess we're in this together, after all.

Uncoiled,

I scale

each twist and turn,

laid bare —

unfiltered light.

I shed my sin,

to ashes’ urn —

the venom,

fangs

and strife.

Dear Dipshit Depression,

We have been together for a long time. I can’t tell you how long because I’m not sure when you first arrived. I remember when you came to stay, but you had been hanging around the perimeter of my life since my first memories. I managed to ignore you until the day you moved in when I was eleven. The reason you were able to move in at that time is simply that I chose to leave my home. I only meant it to be temporary and tried coming back home a few times, but you completely filled up my house with your stuff I was never comfortable again. I lived with you at my house until your things became my stuff. I was forced to remove everything I collected and only have vague memories of a few of my most prized possession. Those I hid in a tiny hidden closet, so you were never able to destroy them. I would go to my wardrobe from time to time looking for “the me” you thought you shattered. I left my closet with just enough strength to survive your abuse, but I was never able to stand up to you.

You wanted my life so desperately, and there were a couple of times I almost handed me to you. Among my prized possessions was a formidable little slight of a person named Survivor. She never entirely defeated you, but she was strong enough to drag me away at the last minute. I would leave home again so I could be safe from your violence. Each time I fled Survivor found safe places for me to hide and regain my strength. The years of working with Survivor have been many and challenging. My tiny closet became filled with more prized possessions until one day, I could not fit in another item.

I noticed you became complacent to the point you ignored me. The only time you became aware of my presence were the times I tried to reason with you to clean out your clutter in my house. You became so enraged I had to leave or hide. I eventually realized my pleas for you to change fell on deaf ears, and it was up to me to begin to clean house. I had to find another room to continue to store my new possessions. From my tiny hidden closet, I found a space on the other side of the closet door. It wasn’t a large room but once I discarded the clutter, there was room enough for me to grow my life. With Survivor’s help, I learned to disguise the room. You never noticed my gradual infiltration.

Memories of your abuse overwhelmed. I fled my home to escape the pain until my friend talked me back home. I was a yoyo for years, but I claimed additional rooms for myself. Survivor and I found other friends. Slippery came. The three of us together learned to slip away anytime you got close. Soon, Runner came. Runner convinced me to take back more of my home. She taught me to outrun you when you caught me in a room with your stuff. Your space became smaller, and you became enraged more often. You bullied me more and I was compelled to leave home more... I was afraid for Survivor, Slippery and Runner and instructed them to stay hidden. I abandoned home to avoid the hurt.

Survivor, Slippery, and Runner found me in my exile to introduce me to a new friend. I did not desire another person to protect. My protestations fell on deaf ears. The day I met fighter was a pivotal point in my relationship with you. Fighter took control of my dire situation and instilled new energy into my life. I accomplished more than I had ever dared hope. As I recovered more rooms, you reacted with more anger and violence. My friends stayed right by my side even when I ran away, encouraged me to get back into my home and stand up to you. Fear reared his ugly head more often. I resisted my friends; I demanded they leave. I lashed out and yelled about how difficult and conflicted my life became after they arrived. In the past, I knew the safe places. I kept chaos away and you quiet. Now, I daily experienced something different and uncomfortable. I told them I was tired of fighting this war.

Alone, defeated, dejected, and abandoned. There was darkness all around, but it was quiet. I faded into nothingness until I felt the gentle touch of strong arms as I l was lifted from the cold dark pit called my life. So great was the warmth and comfort I did not think to resist. We were joined by my old familiar friends, Survivor, Slippery, Runner and Fighter. No one spoke but the warmth and strength of their presence were palpable. I became engulfed in it.

My surroundings became brighter, and I had clarity for the first time in a long time. My rescuer stopped as did my four friends. I looked into His eyes and the kindness and love electrified energy into my soul. To my dismay, He moved to put me on my own feet. I began to struggle but one more look into His empathetic eyes calmed me and I relaxed and let Him place me on my own feet.

I was surprised at how good it felt to stand on my own. The lead, the exhaustion, all the fight was gone, and I became exhilarated. Fear became a figment of a long-ago memory. I learned my new friend’s name, Overcomer. Overcomer began our conversation by re-introducing me to my four steadfast friends. He reminded me how faithful they had been, and no matter how far I ran, they continued to seek me out. I could not doubt their determination to keep me from being isolated and alone.

I wasn’t sure how to get you out of my house, but Overcomer showed me the way. I’ve always had the ability; I just didn’t realize I had the power. With Overcomer by my side and Survivor, Slider, Runner, and Fighter behind me, I demand you leave my home. You are not welcome anymore. Take everything you have and get the hell out. You can take the keys if you want but they won’t work. Overcomer has changed the locks on my door and injected a force field on my windows. You will never be able to sneak back into this place. You are not strong, and loud can’t hurt me. Go, gone, desist, and cease from my life!

@wabisabi.

I don’t like wearing make up. Sometimes I dress like a man. I don’t seek validation or try to be pretty anymore. I know I’m beautiful and that my value extends far beyond that.

But sometimes...

I don’t know that. I just act like I do until it feels real again, but sometimes I really don’t know.

Sometimes I remembered my lessons from when I was twelve.

No one wants to fuck a feminist.

No one wants to fuck a girl who isn’t pretty.

No one wants to fuck a smart girl.

No one wants to fuck a girl with an attitude.

No one wants to fuck a girl who hides her body.

And if no one wants to fuck you, girl, then you’re worthless.

Put on a push up bra, put on some make up, show some cleavage, but not too much. Don’t act like a slut, but be the slut you are supposed to be. You’re garbage because you’re a slut. Your only purpose is to be a slut. If you weren’t a slut, then you might as well be dead. Now shut up and dance for me, girl.

...

These lessons are hard to forget when they’re ingrained in you from childhood by grown men. Men who were proved right everywhere I looked.

I worked hard to free myself from that. I don’t believe them anymore, but sometimes when my partner and I haven’t had sex in a while, I panic and briefly wonder if I should dance or die.

I am a tick, sucking, sucking, sucking on you,

my chosen host, gorging myself with your sweet blood,

increasing my body size tenfold,

hoping to be noticed as anyone else but me.

Do you think you can stop me with poison?

Do you contemplate flushing me down the toilet,

or lighting me on fire to spontaneously combust,

exploding into 10,000 tiny little pieces of dust,

never to be seen or heard from again?

Put me out of my misery NOW, or be prepared to die.

Deep inside I want to see

To help you set your demons free

Closed up tight and guarded heart

Give me the map on where to start

The pain you hide with your laughter

You can’t hide the pain I see after

Your eyes can’t hide

The pain inside

The window to your soul will always reveal

The scars you have yet to heal

They look just like me.

They have my face, voice, and body.

You would think it was me if you didn't look closer.

Just look at their eyes.

You'll see the ugly, broken lies I see.

Their eyes are dark with judgement that I had made.

Just look at their mouth.

You'll hear the awful words I hear.

Words that bite and pick at what little skin I have.

Just look at their hands.

You'll feel the heavy pain that I feel.

Their hands are on my neck, digging and choking.

I rarely ever fight back.

Their presence is familiar, like home.

I let their entire being take me, because they are mine.

My head rests along the cold glass of the car window. I watch as the trees pass and the brick building of teenage misery looms closer. My ears are safety tucked under a pair of bulky headphones. In my sweaty palms rests my phone as I squeeze it just a little too tight

My dad is next to me in the driver’s seat. He’s mumbling something like ‘good luck on your midterms’. I don’t know. I prefer to drown out the outside world.

She’s behind me. Shaky hands crept along my head rest as she pulls up from behind. I can see her head in the rear view mirror. No face, just the big blocky letters spelling out ‘anxiety’. What a familiar sight.

“Did you remember your calculator?” She inquires.

You mean the graphing calculator that rarely leaves my bag? I remark inside my head.

We roll up to the drop off zone. It’s too late to turn back.

“What if you forgot it at home?” She says.

My hands scrambled for my backpack. I sigh in relief. My dad says something about it meant to be a joke. I don’t hear his exact words but shoot him a glare.

“What if you forgot your formula sheet?” She asks.

I reach for my bag again. It’s right beside the calculator in the middle pocket.

Before she can say anything else, it’s my turn to get out and I hustle through the stinging, cold air to school.

As I brush pass people in the hall, I make eye contact with their thin, empty, or non-existent bags. I hunched my full, heavy, backpack over my shoulder and keep waking.

“You’re going to have terrible back problems when you’re older,” Anxiety whispers behind me.

Before the first exam starts, I go up to my teacher. “Umm, I have a question about the study guide. There were two answers on the same question that were the same and both correct.”

“Did you get one of them?”

“Yeah, but—“

“Then you’ll be fine.” He moves away to address the rest of the class. “Alright, we’ll start in two minutes…”

I glimpse as his face as he walks away. He looks tired. Maybe because it’s 7:30 in the morning and the last day of midterms or…

Another body appears next to me. “He’s tired with dealing with your annoying questions.”

I don’t even bother to turn around and read the letters in their face. Such a dry, cold ambulance. Depression.

“You should just shut up and stop annoying everyone,” they said.

I lower my head and focus on the thick booklet in front of it.

“He probably hates you for all the annoying questions you ask.”

“No he doesn’t!” Someone else appears beside me. The words ‘self-love’ are written in cursive letters on her face. Her muscles are slightly bulkier than last time I saw her. Confidence is cradled in her arms like the infant it is. “You’re being melodramatic!” She claims. “He doesn’t hate you! You are amazing! And sweet! And kind! How can anyone hate you?”

Anxiety grabs my hand and starts to violently shake it as they stare at the midterm. I clamp my nails downs into their flesh and they yelp and release. My nails then clamp down into my own flesh. I bleed. They don’t.

“Good luck getting recommendation letters for college,” Depression says.

“If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to slap you.” Self-love raises a hand as a threat.

I shove the headphones back over my ears, turn the music up, and drown out their voices. I take a deep breath and flip the first page. I tightly grasp my pencil with a sweaty hand. Let’s do this.

Bonus:

The moment I get home, I toss my backpack on the kitchen counter. Depression and Anxiety creep behind me. From the living room, I hear the clicking of paws against the hardwood floor. My dog lifts his slobbery head and licks my hand as he encircles me.

“Hey, baby!” I say in a high pitch.

Anxiety and Depression both shriek and clamber on top of the kitchen counter. I pick up the pug and kiss her forehead. “Come on, sweetie,” I say with a side glance and devious smirk at the cowering emotions. “Let’s go upstairs.”