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  • Depression acts like a chronic system of bruises.

    They are mysteriously found after aching, twitching, and softly brushing against them.
    Yellow and brownish highlighting freckles and skin imperfections.
    Perhaps blue and lavender in the inaccessible regions of pigmentation.

    They are a marking, of which is not the fault of anyone.
    Yet they serve as a reminder and a tag line for status.

    Can I go on that date? No, you might be vulnerable and widen your bruise.
    Can I call my mother? No, you might forget yourself and lengthen your bruise.
    Can I go to the grocery store? No, you might feel nervous and deepen your bruise.

    No no no, stay in the warmth of your depression where nothing can hurt you. Be in the quell of your dejection and the aftertaste of melancholy.

    In time they disappear, never healing. They migrate to the base of an elbow, the back of a knee, the crook of a waist line, the curvature of a breast.

    You will wonder what the cause of that bruise was. For what did you deserve to be marked as a person deserving of misery? When will the next hit puncture your hull and drive a stain on your skin?
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