Loving Depression

My lover, Deirdre, has been depressed since childhood.


She would look into the mirror and see depression staring into her. Vacant eyes gazing into an abyss which, in turn, gazes into her. Depression accessorized her; making bracelets upon her wrists and purple necklaces around her throat. It wore her nights down until her eyes constantly drooped and her mouth constantly hung. Her reflection was Depression.

They had grown up together… It was a bond I could never hold with her. They were with each other through everything- thick and thin. Mostly thin.

Depression wore her. He made her thin and made her insecure and made her observe the little things with care.

They had a sick relation with her twisting around him, answering his beck and call. Laying awake at night to hear him. Sleeping in with him. Talking about the future in the afternoon- the unimaginable and inevitable death that awaited. They made funeral plans together. They went on walks together. They stared into the infinite cosmos together and thought about nothingness together.

I was almost jealous of them. Angry. At him consuming her. At her letting herself be consumed. At me, for watching.

But… But I was also in love. With him. With her. With him for making her herself.

It’s hard to explain.

The lines between her and him blurred. Were they ever clear?

I adore Deirdre. I would build castles out of glass and wire for her. Make cake out of fire. Travel to the edges of this two dimensional world to give her something in 3-D.

She is depressed, and I am in love with her.

Her and her depression.


Night Arrives

Night consumes her.


He steps around the debris of her life and steals away her eyes first. Always the eyes.

Eyes are windows into the soul. He does this to shut out communication between her soul and the world. Her body becomes a prison. Worse, eyes are a basic human sense. Down one, four to go. The countdown begins and at the end is the cliff of humanity.

Night is greedy.

He moves on from her eyes, and presses himself down upon her chest.

He is gravity, going nine point eight meters per second down upon her. Reaching maximum velocity and grinding her ribs into her lungs. One rib punctures the soft tissue and her air escapes her. She breathes oxygen and the poisonous gas releases itself inside of her.


Night is feasting.

Her fingers begin to numb as her heart pumps and pumps. And no air can travel through the estuaries of her, when there is no air inside her.

Two down, three to go.

Night is grabbing.

As the second sense shuts down, she shuts down. Inwards she collapses. The prison folds itself into a cell. Then it folds again, until she is in a box. Like a mime, she feels the walls. Silent.

And all of her senses turn off. She shuts down. The error message shows on the insides of her eyelids. Power. Off.

Night is lingering.

He arrived at one. He stayed as she shuddered beneath him.

Sleepless in bed.

The horizon tints itself in her blood.

Night is leaving as dawn approaches.

Confession of Fixation

“Biting fingernails is sexy,” he shouts.

They’re on the roof. Everyone’s had a couple drinks… A couple too many. He’s swaying slightly, still light, a little liberated at his confession.

The drunken hoots follow. A cackle. Someone’s leaning against the railing with him, slurring out a mock confession.


Biting fingernails.

The opening of the mouth. That moment of vulnerability as the whites of the teeth poke out from beneath the lips. The gentle up and down movement as the jaw works around the loose nail and skin. The slow tear. The peel. The slight redness revealed. Maybe a drop of blood poking out, sliding down the finger. Caught. By the tongue.

Then the ragged edge ripping. Breaking off. The choice between spitting out the tasteless flesh or chewing it quietly, working the tight muscles of the mouth.

Up and down, salivating slightly, moistening the nail, opening your mouth to spit or closing your throat as you swallow.

A nervous tic. A carryover from childhood.

A confession to bad habits.

His drunken friends are still chortling and swinging along, making their meandering way down to the stairs and off the roof. He looks out at the skyline, considers repeating his confession- making a more serious face, asserting himself more, repeating and repeating.

He giggles instead and toddles after them. Hands safely tucked away.

Free Writing Prompt #2

He is sitting at his desk with his clinical glasses and his open sterile notebook. It is four, the time of our weekly appointed meeting.

Dr. Doug, otherwise known as “Just Doug” is vaguely masking a bored expression with an expression of pity. The slight differentiation is in the set of eyebrows, but I find that his eyes give it away.

The drudgery of gaining trust and explaining away problems.

He studies me, as he always does, and I, in turn, study him- as I always do.

He asks me about my week, the ways in which I have attempted to better myself, etc.

I look at the shadows under his eyes. “Just Doug” often recommends sleep to cope with the war in my head. I cannot tell yet whether he is a hypocrite, or if he simply has no wars to cope with.

He continues to gaze at me. I have not answered the question, and I know it tires him. We have been at this part in the trust exercise for weeks. He’ll ask about my week, attempt to convince me that this is a safe space, and then we’ll roll through the rest of the partially covered time with a game.

I’m a fan of Stratego, but he’s a fan of War. Luck of the draw, I guess.

His stare remains fixed on me, tinged in that boredom that I imagine fills most of his day. Like me, he is not a warm person.

People do not trust in him easily. He is unsuited to the job, and finds the silence of each session dull. He knows the occupation isn’t a fit. “Just Doug’s” short list of patients and poorly written notes show it.

Ironically, I imagine that I am a better therapist. Even without a masters in psychology, and even without the steadiness of a depression-free head, I believe that I can observe people better.

“Just Doug” has a coffee problem. He sleeps late nights because of it. His messy face probably loses him customers. His bored eyes lose him more.

I’d probably leave him too. Maybe. But… I don’t know. I think I relate to those empty eyes and those coffee marked shadows beneath them. He’s not helping me. I know. But together, we can remain stagnant- and that’s something.

I guess.

I… Broken

i kissed her feet
lost paradise skin
because they were

i closed my
eyeglass fingers
without them
i saw
constellations on skin
eyelash kisses
white miles

i held her close
wonderland eyes
she was smooth
egg shells

i glued her
shadow bridges
she felt shattered

i lost her
soft silk
she was harsh