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Sleep Talker

I sat down in the living room, interrupting the space between my mother and the television, which played repeats of diet and weight loss commercials, and suddenly the room felt larger as she left, making her way to her bedroom. And my parents have been asking me if I'm depressed. And if I am, if I'd want to see someone about my depression, to talk about my depression, which is something I seemed to have pushed under the rug throughout years of awkward conversation starters and sleepovers in cabins during summer camp. And I should have known that I was like this in the seventh grade when my friends would stay up till eleven o'clock and talk about what makes them happy, and when they asked me I would pretend to sleep, because nothing makes me more depressed then my hesitation on the question. And I never believed in God, but the shadows on my walls at 2am beg to differ as they offer me an escape to reach spiritual happiness and I cry but they come back every night, tormenting me with hand puppets using the power of the moon. And these nights I don't cry as much. These days I don't feel as much to cry as much. And these days I've been drinking in my bed. Drinking out of water bottles filled with red wine, filled with false happiness and joy, staining my sheets a beautiful burgundy that I try desperately to baptize myself in. And some mornings, when the sun is just about to arise from it's somber, I surrender myself to the morning dew and press my palms into the soil, coating myself in the left over wrath of my wine, and the worms that find their way onto my ribs, and the blades of grass that effortlessly stab my calves, and I find God.

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