Depression

My thoughts often get dark.

I wish I could turn a light on in my head.

I try to imagine a beautiful rose.

But my mind shows me a dead one instead.

I try to believe I’ll be alright.

But the darkness is claiming my mind.

Repetition. Repetition.

Repetition. Repetition.

Slowly I’m believing him.

The darkness is right.

I’m not okay inside.

I need his help.

I need his help.

He poisons my water.

Tells me it’ll make me better.

He cuts my skin.

Tells me it’ll help me live.

He feeds me lies that sound like truth.

He convinces me that I deserve his abuse.

I feel ashamed.

It’s all my fault.

That is what he said after all.

I let him in and didn’t kick him out.

Does that make me responsible for this hell?

Did I sign my own death sentence?

When did this become my existence?

Merely existing and trying to drown.

I know I let myself down.

But I can’t let go.

This darkness has become so comfortable.

Like a favorite sweatshirt or pair of jeans.

It feels so nice when he’s wrapped around me.

When I’m happy I feel guilty.

I don’t deserve those feelings.

I go back to the darkness.

He always reminds me I’m a mess, but I’m his mess.

I can’t let the darkness go.

It’s now an essential part of my soul.

Like air for my lungs.

Like blood for my veins.

The darkness in my soul.

It keeps me awake.