What's your poison?
So, what's your depression about?
You ask me like a bartender who'd make a cocktail with cranberry juice would ask, "What's your poison, madam?" That's how I picture it.
And, when I start, you'd sit attentively, and then, slowly screw your face like you had some green tea.
You react. You dissect. You think why didn't I do this or that or ask or find or shout out loud.
The voice in my head would want me to stop. Stop sharing. Pick your bag. Run away and never turn back.
It's not that I've been punched on my face,
I don't have a mouthful of blood to just spit it out.
It's like menstruating, heavy flow day.
I'd sneeze and I'd bleed,
I'd turn and I would leak,
Checking my pants to see if I stained.
Drained. Soaked and weighed in.
It's in me. It has no sequence. It's not my novel's plotline to explain you chapter wise.
Depression. What's your poison you'd ask.