shame.

the perfectionist walks by, hat tipped and mouth smirking, side-stepping self-worth and grabbing anxiety’s hand to saunter down the cobblestone streets of the brain. folks whistle and clap as the perfectionist walks by because at least this particular problem is socially acceptable.

self-loathing joins the crew of two as they enter the center of the brain to twiddle the knobs and fumble the fobs of the brain’s control system. they’re in luck- the human is working on a craft project. anxiety works the bellows as perfectionist and self-loathing pull a lever and, with a flip of the switch, the human shuts down completely. they have done their job, dirty as it may be.

as they leave, depression sneaks in to plug in the shame train so it can make its rounds through the human’s memories. it puffs off in a cloud of smoke and acrid fumes, bubbling green and gooey like toxic sludge, to deliver misguided shame to its host. depression goes back to its corner, moping and slouching in silence.

the shame train arrives at central station to deliver the full suicidal ideation package, an unfortunate side effect of the perfectionist’s touch. the package ignites its host in flickering flames of fury and inhumane humiliation and the human wonders what they ever did to deserve this.