In the sixth grade, I looked a pictures of girls
Not the porn kind, the ones with
Bodies curled into nectarine spheres
Fuzzy skin wrapped around a hard ugly pit
The pictures were always black or white
Returns of a google images search for the term
Depression

I wanted to be depression in its melancholy beauty
I wanted to wrap my doughy, scabby skin
Around something worthwhile
Maybe depression was worthwhile in sixth grade
Rich and savory tears to roll away the sweetness of childhood

But those pictures were lies
What picture of a woman isn’t
Real depression doesn’t fit into a trembling body
Wrapped around and around and around because there is no pit
It seeps in and out of every pore, pulsating, breathing
Pen scribbles on paper that ripped underneath the pen
Consuming, feeding, inhaling

My own brain is a parasite in my body
Moulding my curves into fat roles
Breasts into mosquito bites
Face into one big, crooked nose
Until my transformation is complete
You might recognize me as the monster under your bed
Or the murderer in your Sherlock Holmes book
The nightmare on Elm Street
Faceless, broken, screaming

Until I open my eyes to find them level with the carpet
And I am curled into a nectarine sphere
Rocking back and forth until the world blurs
Whole and firm and sweet