As someone with major depressive disorder, I absolutely loathe how it controls me day to day and sucks the life out of every possible action. As a Hindu, Deepavali, or our festival of lights, has always been a cause for celebration; it becomes hard to celebrate when that light dims and starts looming ahead you.
Image credit Kushwaha
on the third day of Deepavali,
Depression burned its fingertips with diyas,
And
I slept next to a moth, plucked my hair
to count in seconds, lit a fire to my palms,
tallied liters in blood, bled for parasites
breathed in
prayed for obscenity, prayed for innocence,
surrendered the plasma
mourning in my arteries
held my breath
begged for light, begged for sentiment,
shivered for my mind to gain sentience, solidifying
my sludge of tears until they turned to brick
hold breath
begged for sunlight, swore to steal my neighbor’s
own breed of Somber
hold breath, wither in meditation,
mediate whether I laid between
the incinerator or the morgue,
beg for shelter, beg for morning
waited until my forehead scrubbed the feet of piety
waited until my skin turned to stone
