a common occurrence in people with depression
is for them to rely on sex to feel better.
we know it’s not going to change the thoughts we have,
or that our face while we orgasm will scare off the demons,
but because for that time
we feel good.
i cannot speak for anyone else,
but one of my unfortunate downfalls of relying on sex through depression
is the comeback to “reality” that my brain whispers upon me at the end.
i like to call these my ‘sadgasms’.
these are the times where i’ll take a few moments
to enjoy myself,
to enjoy my body.
my skin is soft and the moans are softer,
but when it all comes to that glorious end
i have to keep my eyes shut,
not just to bask in the post-orgasmic glow,
but because once that’s faded
if my eyes open
the demon that swells within me will reach up and poke my eyeballs out.
i lay nervously, trying to enjoy the moment a little longer,
but the vampire that sits in my heart,
that screams at me to let out some blood for it to enjoy,
whispers a cruel threat to suck my neck dry.
“you were fantasising about someone giving you a hickie,
why not let me?” he says.
the images that make me do the things
that i promised i wouldn’t do anymore
flash under my eyelids like the flaps of a butterfly’s wings.
a shudder sneaks under my skin
as the craving for hurt comes back
and i let the empty loneliness sink deep within.
nothing i’m not used to.
a black hole opens
and i let it suck out my organs,
the motivation that got me this far through the day.
a sadgasm is always the same;
your body gives you the rush of euphoria
and then depression crawls back up
like the ladybugs in my bathroom.