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Whenever I give form to my depression, it is a man.

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He is not a man with skin and hair and nails. Neither does he have eyes of any recognisable colour or lips of blushing red. No, he has none of those things. Instead, he has a body that glistens slick as an oil spill over every grotesque inch of his naked shape. His is a physique that makes a mockery of masculine appeal. What should act as a rival to David becomes hideous and terrifying, no more so than when this lean strength bunches together in the leaping bound that inevitably has him crouched on my body. Knees pressed to my chest, this sickly shining man digs his colossal weight into me till I struggle to breathe. His face, strong-jawed and sharply-angled, is always leering with malicious satisfaction, at once beautiful and hideous. He lowers his head until his straight, narrow nose is a mere quiver from mine, and until all I can see are his eyes that are not eyes. In them I see the show reel of my every harrowing pain play in a continuous loop. I am sliced anew by every cutting moment of rejection, betrayal and regret, made more potent for the repetition, and I am transfixed. I barely notice his burning hand at my throat and its slowly building pressure. Only when the looping reel blurs and my ears catch a terrified sobbing do I realise my situation. It is too late. I can do nothing but suffocate…deliberately…grotesquely…under the weight of this hulking man.

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