A bit of vent art. "And I would be a liar if I didn't admit that sometimes I am giving,
Like the quick fuck is sometimes the only way I can remind myself of this living body,
and that at least someone wants it to stay living.
Or like sometimes the hot blade to my hip is the only way I can remind myself some part of me still wants to heal.
Sometimes I just give whatever I feel I can choose to give still.
Like when I gave the boy my silence when he put his hands around my throat,
before asking if I wanted them there.
Or like when I gave the depression five hours on the couch unmoving,
because I was terrified of what it might make me do if I moved.
Like, just like those men, sometimes mouthing off to the depression just means I am that much less likely to be breathing tomorrow.
So on the days when everything that wants to take my body from me knows I want to let it,
I don't bite back.
I make myself very small, and quiet, and still, and I give it whatever it needs to go away.." Part of the spoken word poem by Nora Cooper - Depression, the Dude
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