Untitled, Written Mid-October

I tell my teacher "I am sorry...
It is hard to get out of bed on time;"
It is hard to get out of bed at all.

When the romantics explain how mental illness
is a part of human diversity,
Hold your tongue. be glad that they have never understood.
If they, too, once knew, bite your tongue
until you taste your blood.
Be happy that they have forgotten the depths of the darkness
and try hard not to be so desperately jealous.

When someone tries to tell me that my illness
is not just something i have to deal with
but a part of who I am
it sends a chill down my spine colder than a mountain's whisper.

If it is truly a part of who I am,
then the other part of me is wondering:
If I can remember the feeling of light with no darkness
does that mean that darkness can exist without the light?
If this darkness can exist on its own,
I am far too scared to dare give that a chance.

When someone tells me that my Darkness
serves only to make the light brighter
and that this experience has made me who I am
it is hard to explain. They are right.
they are.

But to explain that who I am today is not better is even harder
to explain that the abyss stares back, and no amount of art or music or poetry can unlock that gaze
is harder than all else
because i am truly explaining this to myself
more than I am explaining it to them.

Depression is not a norm of reaction,
it is a scourge of innocence.
No Amount of understanding can extinguish
the blaze of neurons sending thoughts like lava over every inch of skin
This is not a difference to be understood or accepted
it is a crisis to be solved.

It is impossible to get out of bed on time
when it is no longer possible to get out of bed at all.
Tell everyone:
I am Sorry.