Posted in Poetry

Bad Days

When I was younger,

I used to call the days my depression took me under its spell

“The dark days”.

It was a phrase I read somewhere

and it seemed to fit.


I was having a dark day,

I was shrouded in darkness,

but the darkness was warm,



It whispered things in my ear

that made me feel like I was home.

Oh, how I hated the dark days.

(Oh, but how I loved them).


When I grew up,

I started calling them

“Bad Days”.

I knew that “bad” was just another word for

“Yeah, I’m fine”

and that the trembling in my hands would stop



I used “bad” the way other people used “sunny”.

The description of a state obvious to anyone looking.

But no one was looking.


I call them “Shit Days” now.

“I’m having a shit day.”

It sounds both like a joke and an exclamation mark.


The darkness doesn’t seem inviting anymore,

it still tries to hold me,

but those arms,

made of darkness that is me but also something else,

are suffocating me.


On Shit Days I’m tired and moody,

ready to fight the world

but maybe also cry?

A little?


On Shit Days I want nothing more than to be swallowed

consumed by the stifling arms of the darkness that is me,

and the darkness that is other.

I long for a home long gone,

the memory of comfort the darkness used to bring.


But the home is nothing now,

The darkness is no longer my friends.

And the arms, that hold and harm and live,

brand me with a touch of darkness more alien than myself.


I am mostly a prisoner of the darkness when we’re together.

The funny thing is, we always are.




23-year-old writer from Chile. Currently reading, writing, and trying not to lose my mind.

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