Because

The sea of words couldn't flow out of my mouth any slower,
when I tell you how I used to be depressed,
I can't get my thoughts to coordinate with my lips
and I can't get the knots in my stomach to change into anything but
the knots in my stomach.

I don't like to talk about it,
because
you think I can't see the look in your eyes.
The pain in my chest is fueled by your condescending words,
and I know your mind is anywhere but here with me.

I don't like to talk about it.
I want to push it into the deepest hole that
my mind can conjure up because
I've been better since the snow stopped blanketing the pavement.
I've felt my heart lift and my spirits rise,
but none of that was your doing.

You pushed me back into that dark place when
I was attempting to get out and
you told me I wasn't worth your tears
when my whole world was crumbling around us.

I don't like to talk about it,
because it brings me back to that place
two years ago,
and I feel a mix of nostalgia and hatred towards myself
because
why?
WHY did I start to hurt myself in the first place?
Why did I let the pain dictate all that I was?
Why wasn't I good enough for myself?

Why am I still not good enough for anyone else?

Author's Note

I don't like to talk about it.