seeping.

a take on depression and anxiety

Sometimes I lay still, trying to exhale for a whole minute, or at least until my chest starts to burn. Until I hear my heart beating in my head loud enough for me to believe it. Then I do it again, because it feels like all the bad goes out when I release a breath. On other days it leaves through the tips of my perpetually mobile fingers: seeping into the bed sheets, bouncing into the air, blots of charcoal on the paper, on the table, on my lap after each tap, tap, tap. Even the shower can wash some of it off, dragging dark ink down my limbs, into a puddle on the bathroom floor--but somehow I never really felt.. clean.