7 Frames

Seven frames.

One table.

One mirror.

One girl trying to break through her own reflection.

Depression doesn’t always look like tears.

Sometimes it looks like ribs counting your breaths.

Like a spine sharp enough to hang your silence on.

Like side **** and shadows and a body that feels more like a battlefield than a home.

I climbed onto the table because the floor felt too far away.

I stared into the mirror because I needed to see if I was still in there.

I pounded on the glass because I swear there’s a version of me trapped on the other side, screaming back.

No nudity.

No glamour.

Just the raw geometry of pain.

Clawing at my own skin like I could peel off the weight.

Pressing my palms to the reflection like it might finally press back.

Bones, breath, and the kind of quiet that roars.

This is what depression looks like on me.

Not pretty.

Not poetic.

Just real.