frequented by ghosts.

Haunted. 

 The word itself leaves a strange taste on my tongue. Like it’s weird to admit it out loud.
 

I feel haunted.

Haunted by memories. 

Voices. 

Lies. 

It’s time to write the truth.

It’s time to write about what hurts. 

I once read this book about a girl and a haunted house. Turns out, she was the haunted house. I detested the book. I tucked it behind other books, not wanting to see it but not able to just throw it away either. It made me feel uneasy, like something lay inside it. I later realized, I understood the girl. Her cracks, her crevices, were haunted and the house was forever trying to pull her deeper and deeper inside.
  This is my depression.
  This deep sense of dread and despair comes from deep inside. It fills my veins, making everything feel heavy and gross. It clouds my mind. It whispers, nothing is worth it. Nothing matters. Be angry. You deserve to be angry. No one truly cares anyway. You don’t need friends. You don’t need anything.