Then We Get Into Bed
The worst kind of depression hits when you're in bed.
Billie Eilish keeps the tears fresh in your eyes as you lie there, staring at the ceiling in silence.
Contrary to belief, darkness can be soothing.
In the darkness, I can touch myself. No one's there. No one's looking. Just me and the void.
But darkness doesn't stay empty for long. It fills with memories—things that bother you. The lack of love in your life. The unbearable loneliness.
Staring at a ceiling you can't even see, her voice intoxicates you. It feels like drowning. Her voice is water, pulling you under, breath by breath.
And you let yourself sink deeper.
It's remarkable, this feeling. Because for once, I'm not alone.
Depression is here with me. My lover.
His caresses are gentle, his presence strangely soothing. And maybe, just maybe, if I lean into his touch—his love, his kisses—I'll feel less empty.
Even if it's only for a moment.
His fingers find the most intimate parts of me, offering relief. My body responds, releasing, relaxing.
And for that fleeting moment, I feel something.
How relieving.