My mother told me that you can’t cure depression,
that taking pills wouldn’t fix me and taking six
instead of the prescribed two definitely wasn’t
going to speed up the process. But I met a boy
who tasted better than Prozac. He made it easier
to get out of bed. He kissed me like I was
alive, like I wasn’t empty, like maybe there was
something left inside me. He made my bones
ache less when he touched me. He made it okay.
When my world was crashing down around me,
he picked up all the pieces. When I stopped
breathing and tried to tear open my wrists to
find the last little bits of happiness left in my
veins, he was there to lace me back together.
But he left and I haven’t washed my hair in three
weeks. My mother was right.
I met a boy who tasted better than Prozac (via extrasad)