Conversations with depression

My depression drinks black coffee, my depression smokes cheap cigarettes. They stain my teeth and stain my skin but my depression doesn’t care.

The smoke stings and makes my face feel charred, but it’s nothing, it’s OK, it’s nothing.

I would ask my depression, if I could, why he comes and sits with me as if he’s nowhere else to go, why he comes and puts spiderwebs over my eyes when I’m trying to wake up and stuffs wool in my mouth when I’m trying to speak and smile and be normal and just be normal. I would ask why he can’t come at a more convenient time, why he takes up so much space, why he can’t move on. My depression sits in the corner of the room, a resentful lover.

We sit and drink black coffee, my depression and I.

My depression drinks beer and beer and drinks more beer, and leads me into cheap dark places with cheap thick drinks and gets me to pay for them, every time. My depression, he can be fun when he’s drunk. We get on when we’re drunk, my depression and me, and we run riot inside our world and find fierce mania, who takes us both by the hand and whirls and whorls us and buys us more drinks and more and more and tells us we’re perfect and beautiful and the world can go fuck itself and bleed and bleed.

We sit alone in bad good company, in dark cheap places, depression and mania and me.

I would ask them, if I could, where this will all end. Mania fierce and glorious and ruinous like a Vauxhall weekender, depression by turns bright and murderous or empty, just empty, empty. And mania would say I already know the answer and depression would say I already know the answer and I’d say I know, I know what you’d say but I know you lie, you lie, and I want to know if you’re lying now.

My depression drinks black coffee and smokes stinking cigarettes, and I would ask him if I could why he comes to me, a child asking why their shadow follows them forever.

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