My depression is a vengeful goddess. She demands sacrifice, fresh blood to feed on, and most days, it doesn’t matter if it’s mine or not. She is not unlike the moon, a lady of the night who seeps into my bloodstream, like city lights finding their way between closed blinds. My depression does not know how to rest. Which is funny, because she’s always whispering how softly beautiful it is to sleep. She’s always enticing me with the false promise of dreams. If I give her enough blood, enough tears, maybe she’ll grant me a splash of color. I’ve turned my room into her altar. My dresser is dedicated to decay, my clothing has become throw rugs in her sanctuary. See, I can do everything right. I can take the pills, clear the rot away, cleanse myself four or five times a day, but when the sun slips down the horizon she returns to me. Her fingers always find their way around my bones. My depression is a vengeful goddess, and I am slowly learning that does not make her my god. I am learning that gods cannot control gods.
