In Which the Vampire Gets Diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder
You say your last goodbye to your
last friend for the twenty-third time.
You start to wonder what the point of tomorrow is.
All of your friends are dead, again, and here you are,
encased in a mystery that changes at least once a decade.
You’re breathing, but not really;
you can’t recall the feeling of relief as
your lungs fill with fresh oxygen,
the first gasp of air after spending
just a second too long underwater.
There are novels written on your existence,
classes taught about your lore,
but no one really knows you obviously. Why would they?
There’s nothing worth knowing outside of the textbooks.
They speak about your aversion to garlic (mild allergy at best),
your fear of the sun (it gives you a headache),
and how you can’t see yourself in the mirror
(at least it cured your body dysmorphia, I guess).
The one about sleep is true. You haven’t known
rest in centuries and you ache for just a moment
of peace as you slip away into unconsciousness.
The tiredness you feel is bone-deep,
but at least it’s something different to feel
than the hollowness that has settled where your
once beating heart rests,
calloused and decayed from its lack of use.
They never talk about what it’s like to see
your friends grow and die, over and over again
as you are left unchanged,
lost in the memory as time slips away;
it was never yours to hold.
Happiness, I mean.
It was never meant for you,
because you are the embodiment of the darkness,
a story children tell in the middle of the night.
You can’t help but wonder,
is this what it means to be human?
To hate yourself because the world tells you
every reason you should?
2087
blakekathryn
gamechangershow
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
izzy806
