My definition

My depression, is to be awake until two in the morning because I am somewhat more tired and I am a little closer to being awake. 

I can tell you the number of veins marked on my hands and that the roots of my hair are dirty, and that I eat like a desperate when I am on the edge, I choke on food because of emptiness and anxiety and my sadness is terrifying in that it's contagious. 

They once told me that it left them sad and thinking, that they felt my pressure after three months and counting, that they were there but it was hard when they knew of the poison in me.

My sorrow is that there are times that it is at the tip of my fingers, that the cheeks and the green of his eyes fade. That it can be seen when I blink and that time I stay forty-five minutes in thinking that: Its taste of sand and water, its calories, its cost, its energy and my existence.

And it's lonely, that my friends keep talking to me, with messages at three in the morning and five in the afternoon. They keep me talking and insisting and I want to tell them, but the cell phone is far and my mind is blank. And I can't stand the sound of his voice with the reasons for his inconvenience.

It is that I move away from all social contact and I leave with my arms around my legs and doubting the few decisions made. That the truth is that I don't have the strength to write. To pretend I am defeated and I feel bad, ugly, corrupt and horrible.

My thing is, that sometimes it feels final, it's peaceful. Like sitting on the balcony with the rain and the wasted cigarette. It is in the same way that cats lie on my legs and purr and that I am drinking tea in winter.

It is already like a hug to which it is customary and you are addicted to the singing of veins. It’s that you are tired of the erosion of the waves and the electrocution of the lightning. I was wounded from the last attack and the emotions are in an overdosed.

It isn’t easy for me to talk about it. I am not directly in the sense that I say it. In that, it is that my skin burns me and my feet falls with the air. That my hands have no bones to support me and that my eyes fall out.

That my brain is no longer thinking. It’s off and in a repetition code. And I would like to say it clearly and that I grab your hands so you could understand. But my depression is as jumping the rope, cold war and everything is a betrayal.

Is that my depression is a lie and fight. And don't believe me when I say to be well but don’t believe me when I say to be wrong.

That my depression has a mention in the dictionary that nobody should define because it's corrupt.

It was my birthday, I was among friends and we had run away, fallen and crashed. That we were in chaos, and he was screaming while the other was bleeding. But I was looking at the tall buildings with their difference between breaking and dying. They believed me lost.

When I remembered that he was afraid of heights and that I loved him to stop noticing the buildings. That it took me a month to see him again and end sitting on the edges in fear of his existence. 

And I would like that my depression could be locked in the idea that it is a shadow companion to which you could accommodate and rebel.

My depression is that I have been sleeping for four days and that my stomach is vomiting and I am defeated. That I must have letters in the form of magazines. And that I no longer have a fight or flight when at thirteen it was the first attempt and at that eight started as a tic. 

I don't remember how to be without it, and if I were honest, my depression is like my first horror movie. 

In my house alone at seven with light and the cold of fever. It is like listening to the sounds of lonely midnight and that your loved one dies and you read it in the newspaper.

It is identical to the way you catch in a lie you love and in the fear of when you lose. It is the acceptance of existing.

TA.