Heal

I am outside the atmosphere

seeing if the world is flat.

Depression is ugly

and she lies to me.

Bears false witness.

That I am worthless

selfish

stupid

unlovable

unclean

unworthy

less than.

That this rendezvous

with hell will last forever.

I retreat to the trees,

hoping that the

rustling squirrels

and waterfalls

will save my life.

Studies show that

people heal faster

from surgeries

when they see nature.

Through a window.

Pictures.

Sounds.

Even potted plants.

So it makes sense to me

that it might heal me too.

If I walk fast enough

on these trails,

I won't notice the way

the medicine

makes me shake,

and forget that it

might make it impossible

for me to sleep tonight.

I haven't had a panic attack

in two weeks.

The anxiety is fading slowly.

Moments come

where I can think clearly.

Colors look brighter.

Other moments I sink

like a rotting log

in a pond.

Bits of myself diffusing.

Fermenting.

Succumbing to sickness.

Slut shaming my own

lack of serotonin.

I've had enough.