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There's a depressed person that lives across from me.
Their window curtains are always open, and various-luscious-plants lie in front of the portal.
Every morning, I see them lay in bed. They hope that they can sleep all day, but they always wake up and soulessly wonder about.
It's 11:57a.m.
It's a sad sight to see, it's only a kid.
The melancholy in each sigh, and waning step.
The tears that stream down their face everyday grow heavier and louder as the weeks progress.
One afternoon, I could hear them crying.
I still saw them through that damn window.
Just laying in bed. Face red, swolen, and lost.
They looked like they were already dead.
Sometimes I swear they'd see me staring back through the portal, but they never really seemed to care.
Then, the third week of April came around. Their cries were silent, sinking deep into themself, forever leaving prints on their skin (in the wrinkles of their face and in the scars that they bore)
They repeated, over and over, "I'm okay. I'm okay. It's okay. I'm fine. I'm fine."
They lied to themself. Everyday.
Sometimes, when I'd catch a glance
They're full of horrible rage; cursing, yelling, punching walls, pushing others away, pulling out their own hair.
Regret.
Apathy.
Guilt.
Emptiness.
Words escape with toxic venom and force, without a second thought.
The storm that followed them would always fall apart and sink once the door to their bedroom closed.
They, too, would always fall apart and sink.
It was like the door cut off the gasoline that fueled the fire.
And instead--settled the fog and ashes into the cold hardwood floor. Staining the once whole shattered glass.
They pleaded with a higher being that they did not believe in.
But nobody came. No one could clear the cinders or the ash or glass or dust that lay on the floor or their silvery, charred skin.
Then they'd stare into the portal--at me.
And I'd stare back--at myself.