Depression
She kicks her black patent leather pumps off of her small feet and falls of her bed, crushing the poems she wrote in her happier times called such things as "Hope" and "Beauty." Poems that wouldn't ever see another's eyes.Her blue jeans clung protectively to her legs, which she was sure were either too fat or too thin. She knew they had to be ugly; they are a part of her. A small, frayed hole on the knee of the jeans occupied her attention. She was utterly certain everyone saw this slight imperfection on the knee and loathed her for it.
As she squirmed at the thought, her white shirt reveals her stomach. Before any more of her solar plexus could horrify the world, she pulled her shirt down to cover her grotesque appearance. Her short sleeves allowed the sunlight to play over the criss-crossed scars on her wrist, caused by a hundred uncommitted suicides.
Her face, which would have been beautiful if she'd have allowed, was stained red with tears of self pity. She was squeezing her face as much as was possible, as though wishing for it to implode upon itself. She cried into her hands, into fingertips all but erased but the biting acid of her bulimia.
Those self same hands, stained with tears and scarred by stomach acid, wrapped themselves around the gleaning, pilfered steak knife and sliced open her wrists for the last time ever. As her life of pain and torment poured from her wounds, dying the vanilla carpet an deep crimson, she looked quietly to how beautiful she looked in the mirror on her hope chest. And there my friend Depression died on top of the divine white of her poems, finally feeling beautiful.
