Her Name is Depression
The uncomfortable embrace of my own mental illness
By V. B. BPublished 4 years ago • 1 min read
Photo by Mia Harvey on Unsplash
We're not holding hands,
I’m french-kissing her.
She walked in
and my machine gun thoughts
exploded,
bounced off,
her Clark Kent chest,
ricocheting around
in my skull.
We crash together,
our tongues locked
in a wet, awkward embrace
breath intermingling,
tasting like a lime-flavoured
White Claws,
slashing to bare
all of my bad decisions.
- V.B.B.
About the Creator
V. B. B
I'm a pessimistic amateur poet and writer that has had a few violent and dark things published. Also, I love to make lists of my favourite movies, t.v. shows, books, and music.
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