The Doctor’s Appointment

“I don’t like to see such a high score on this,”

he says when he sees your

“thoughts that you would be better off

dead or hurting yourself in some way” score

at a 2, more than half of days,

even though you haven’t been feeling suicidal recently.

You placed your numbers with a purpose,

trying to prove to him

that you really need help

because the moments where you do think

you’re better off dead hurt

and you want to live

but it’s difficult to live inside grey everyday,

day in and day out.

Your escitalopram is white

like the walls of your old dorm,

10 mg down your throat everyday

keeps the greyness at bay.

When you studied abroad,

all the kids said they could see color in you.

They loved how colorful you were

with your bright yellow pants

with white polka dots scattered throughout

and green cardigan

that makes you feel like a

90 year old grandma on the days

you feel confident within yourself.

Every time they said that to you,

you could never understand why.

You couldn’t see what they saw in you

because your vision was clouded,

grey, musty, bleak,

a panic attack every time

you walked into a bathroom.

You always joked with your friend

about how it was a miracle you weren’t dead yet.

It’s a miracle you aren’t dead now.

The kids saw the color you’re just now starting to see inside you.

The yellow of the sun.

The blue of the sky.

The green of the leaves on the trees.

“I don’t like to see such a high score on this,” he says.

Neither do you.



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