The Sickness Poem by Miss Tee

I have a sickness inside my skin,
it waits for night to settle in.
It creeps along when lights grow dim,
and whispers low and cold within.

It finds me when I'm most alone,
when silence hardens into stone.
It wraps around my fragile mind
and leaves no shard of peace behind.

I tried — I swear — to catch the air,
that smoky joy that isn't there.
I reached for clouds of silver light,
but lost my grip in endless night.

It tells me softly, sharp and slow:
"You're not enough. You'll never grow.
You'll stand alone. You always will.
Be quiet now. Be small. Be still."

It says no one would feel the space
if I erased my name, my face.
The world would turn, the days would spin,
as if I'd never once been in.

It tells me I am just excess —
a breathing form of uselessness.
One less to tend, one less to see…
"Who cares? " it hisses back at me.

I say it here because I can't
let loved ones hear this broken chant.
The words get caught. They never land.
They shake but won't leave my hand.

So here it is — the truth, confessed:
This sickness building in my chest.
It has a name. I know it well.
Depression.
And it is hell