i used to wear my depression like a coat of armor, dressing up these eye bags with liner
hiding this matted mane of hair under scarves. the armor was a sauna of long sleeves in summer and high waisted bikinis
the armor was fruit patterned socks to keep these ankles hidden. for your armor bears no strength against a war within yourself. these ankles are scarred and these hip bones still bleed. the armor was a disguise, i looked a stranger in the eye before leaving my house every morning. the armor was a weapon and it destroyed its enemies. the armor killed questions and murdered glances. the armor fought battles against breakfast and brothers who hate you instead of their mother because the resemblance is uncanny and god damn it give the boy somewhere to place the blame that isn’t her i guess. the armor started to wear down, concealer became powder, scarves became braids. loose dresses turned to tshirts and socks turned to pants. how high must a blade travel before the armor gives way to weakness. the armor sits on my bathroom sink, the armor hangs in my closets and gets folded in my dressers. the armor is no match for the weakness once it begins to consume you. the armor is infected with memories of false imprisonment. trapped in my own body in my own clothes under my own makeup after i was already so heavy. shackled by expensive gold jewelry from my fingers to my toes. the armor weighed more than i ever did. and it still does. truly the armor kept me too safe. so safe between flowing lace and colorful patterns that food seemed to be an assassin i didn’t want to fight. so safe that in waterproof makeup i never shed a tear, for when you pay to hide this well, you can’t risk your mask having a tear stain run through it. not a hair out of place. a pretty shiny thing. so safe that my shower drain needed cleaning once a week, for the armor was so heavy it tugged at every strand of hair i had. the armor hangs too loose around my hips in all honesty. i cannot be strong in what reveals that i am weak. when the clothes fall off my shoulders and the bracelets off my wrists, the rings slip from my fingers and these eye bags are too heavy to lift. no concealer can cover the exhaustion of fighting an internal battle of this length. when motivation grows slim and the armor starts to fade, dust covers the armor yes, but it covers this body too. this body like a corner under a desk, untouched and unseen, left invisible until you do the heavy lifting. move the baggage to the side and there you’ll find me stripped of my armor and unsure of what human touch feels like. covered in a sheen of dust and dirt from the loneliness found in the darkest corners. i wear no armor here under this desk. i wear no armor here in this corner. i wear no armor here because when i am withering away to dust and dirt before their eyes, what would be the point of buying new armor just to hide from people who already can’t see me. my armor now is this cold demeanor. my armor now is these quivering bones and this growling stomach. my armor now is hips that bleed and joints that ache. my armor now is the night turning to day and nothing changing because i am not a constant or a staple. no one cares for the dust and dirt under the desk in this corner, forgotten until i am a liability, spreading sickness, negativity. no one cares for dust and dirt, for it’s easier to kick it while it’s down and make sure it stays that way, keep a quiet small mess in this corner and hope it doesn’t grow. don’t feed the little beast for it’ll form words. don’t love the little beast for it’ll form attachment. don’t talk to the little beast for it’ll form it’s own opinions. pretend the dusty little beast is a robot, turn her off when you’re done playing, and this white knight will be tossed back into your toy chest. this white knight who has loved each of you with and without my armor. this white knight who makes the midnight drive and answers the phone calls and cooks the food and pours the drinks and wipes the tears and saves anyone who wants to be loved by this dust and dirt i have to offer. this white knight needed a savior but when i’m the only one wearing my armor, fighting this battle, who am i to think any of you would drape armor over yourselves for me. who am i to think this matted hair deserves to be braided with care like yours on your worst days? who am i to think this growling stomach should deserve to eat if i miss my time slot? who am i to think i am worthy of anything more than a number on a screen. i know now my armor is the number i produce, the show i put on, the questions that i answer. my armor is a dead face and eyes hidden behind shades, because this armor is weak and fragile and god damn it just don’t look in my eyes because it’s where the pain resides when she is unable to hide and i wish sometimes though i’m dust and dirt i could be less. i could be a mere thought based on a young girl who just couldn’t carry the weight anymore. i could be a memory of a mess no one wanted to clean up so she cleaned it up herself. place her armor in a museum and box each piece with care. make sure the makeup brushes get cleaned, and the clothes steamed. not a wrinkle in sight, for this is the armor of a once white knight. a white knight is nothing without her jewels, cleanse them and shelve them low enough for the children to touch. list a menu of the foods i loved and never ate. lay each suicide note side by side and show how her strength grew and shrunk like a carousel never stops turning until it rusts. until the water leaks into the crevices and the air is too humid to dry them. each note dated and stamped with a different name for the recipient. because no one loves a white knight after they’ve been saved. they don’t need protection when they’ve found the light. they all leave and they all return to see me fall. for these letters will retell my story, like a tv show they watched when they were too scared to sit in their own darkness, so they wallowed in mine. well my waters are not shallow and the armor was too heavy. so when the last letter is marked with this years date and stamped with my own name, give the letter to the little girl i was supposed to be and tell her i loved her enough for all the people who couldn’t. tell her i loved her so much i gave up my chance in this life, to give her one in the next. tell her i wasn’t strong enough to hang the sun moon and stars for her, but i’ll shine bright enough next to them, i’ll never leave her. for the sweet sweet soul of that little girl never left me, and i know this is weak, i know this is quitting, but when you’re so invisible that no one even cares to laugh at your losses, what’s one more? maybe the 5th time is the charm and maybe in the next life she won’t be a white knight, but a princess.
