why jk rowling embodies depression as dementors

i wanted to talk to you about happiness
but i don't think anyone in this room is qualified to talk about something
they probably don't know much about, and
how it spends most of its time
seeping out of your skin in whatever ways it can
because maybe your body is too toxic for it.

that's when you start having your moment.

the moment when you're not sure
how to be alive,
when strings become nooses
in the stars of your eyes,
thin objects mock your bones
and the instruments of your heart
act like knives thirsting for blood.

pavement shatters underfoot.
the cracks become teeth,
sharp and unfriendly as you pass;
they're grey, great sheaves of skin.
the world is alive, but unfriendly and cold.

so we sink back into what we're used to.
the way settling into sadness
is like settling into bed after a long day.

so they put you on everything they can find.
prozac, where you stayed miserable.
abilify, where you stayed miserable.
seroquel, where you stopped eating
when being treated for having stopped eating.
risperdal, where you became a zombie.
celexa, where you stopped obsessing
until your dose caused heart problems
so you dropped it til you felt permanently
bad.
klonopin, where you got high.
ambien, where you hallucinated.
neurontin, where you got dizzy
and couldn't tell if it was from having stopped eating again
or from the pills that rivaled the size of your thumbs.
effexor, where you cross your fingers and hope
maybe finally something goes right.