My depression is fluent in blames and assumptions,

Smells of burnt out cigarettes, the smoke running in his vein,

He talks to me about the people I have lost,

The friendships I have left behind,

These wraiths of memories-

They are hanging on the dusty shelves of my heart,

Like souvenirs from the past,

Rattling with every move I make,

The music of these memories is a song

He plays on loop,

And I'm dodging the thoughts, his voice

Like bullets aimed at my sanity,

I tell him how my mind is a nightmare,

But he doesn't tell me it's going to be okay

As much as he tells me no one will understand.

I'm wearing the dress he likes,

The colour looks good on me, he tells me,

I'm wearing the opinions he feeds me

Served on the platter of insecurities,

But I don't question,

We're in love,

He loves me, he tells me,

He loves how my eyes are what the strength of a hurricane looks like

But are also only a basic shade of black.

He loves my face but freckles don't look good on me,

He loves my hair but it looks much better when straightened,

He loves me but on his terms,

And I don't question him, again.