Softened Confessions

Ever try to explain depression?

Watch each word fall short, whittled into something slight.

I keep regretting every softened confession.

I once believed it meant a bad mood, mere repression—

you think you can walk it off, let cold air make it right.

Ever try to explain depression?

Now every cheap remark replays in endless succession:

"Why don't you get off your phone, go outside, see the light?"

I keep regretting every softened confession.

I shrink "I want to disappear" to "long week, just tired"—my concession;

the room is bright with windows, yet I stay out of sight.

Ever try to explain depression?

I watch my warmest memories sink beneath this oppression;

short winter afternoons make me quietly grateful for early night.

I keep regretting every softened confession.

I write it line by line, a clumsy, stubborn act of self-possession;

the weight lifts enough to let me breathe once more tonight.

Ever try to explain depression?

I keep regretting every softened confession.