The Mourning Party

Hands unraised,

Hair undone,

I say,

"Welcome,

To the mourning party."

No claps

No cheers

No lush red lips hooting

No veined hands, with expensive watches clapping.

 

I continue,

"There is no perfect time,

No perfect day,

No perfect place

To talk about depression, anxiety, loneliness or rape.”

 A few heads turn up

 

I continue,

"So guys,

I welcome you,

To the mourning party;

In the loving memory of the selves we lost."

 

I point out my finger

"He lives the sadboy aesthetics.

Looking for a girl with the depression fetish."

I put my hand down and look him in the eye,

"Welcome to the mourning party,

This is the tinder of mental illness."

 

Pointing out to another guest, I say,

"The voices in her head

Tell her to kill herself."

I look at her and I say,

"Welcome to the mourning party,

The music here is loud enough to overpower them."

 

Addressing the boy at the back,

Playing his guitar.

The one his dad almost smashed on his head.

I say,

"Welcome to the mourning party,

Here nothing goes unheard."

 

Pointing in another direction, I say,

"She, dressed like depression,

Wants to feel a touch less colder than his."

Looking a her I say,

"Welcome to the mourning party,

This is a pool of warm water."

 

To the boy surviving on injections and pills

Trying to make himself feel something, 

Happiness or pain:

“Welcome to the mourning party,

We’re already 7000 metres above the sea level,

You’re not going any higher.”

Now hand on my chest,

I address another guest,

"And to her,

Who was lying on the bathroom floor before the party started,

Stargazing under the ceiling. 

Staring at it like it was a mirror reflecting her emptiness.

Like the darkness tonight was too bright for stars to shine.”

“I welcome her to the mourning party,

She got up and pasted glow-in-the-dark stickers on the roof and walls.”