In the sixth grade, I looked pictures of girls

Not the p**n 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

Molding 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