What's Going To Kill Me

I wish I could say my depression was something like you see in movies. 

The kind where the beautiful girl sits alone and cries while everyone around her is puzzled because they all know how beautiful and important she is. 

Where all of her pain and tears become laughter and smiles. 

Tragic, but curable.

 My depression is ugly and hopeless.

 It's sitting awake in a dark room at four in the morning with nothing but your thoughts while the walls close in on you.

 It's crying in the shower so no one knows or asks questions.

 It's hearing "just be happy" like you haven't tried. 

It's breathing a sigh of relief when the blade finally slides across unmarked patches of skin and watching beads of blood bloom in a perfect little line. 

It's finding comfort in the darkest of moments because maybe, just maybe, someone else will feel the way you do for a while. 

It's living everyday in a hell you can't escape because your own mind created it. 

My depression isn't the kind of thing that people romanticize. 

It's the kind of thing that if others could experience it would wish I were gone just as much as I do.

It's what's destroyed me.

It's what's going to kill me.

Death Wish

I've never thought very highly of death

It's so permanent and uncertain.

But I find myself thinking of it more and more often

I fantasize about how my blood would feel slipping out of my veins

Across my pale, scarred skin.

About how my vision would pulse in and out with my ever fading heartbeat

How I might finally feel relief,

How I might feel worse,

How I might not feel anything at all.

And all of those possibilities terrify me, yet I can't help but romanticize it.

I want to experience a moment where I'm consumed by only one thought.

One moment that is purely about me and how I feel.

Not about tomorrow's problems,

Not someone else and their feelings.
Just me and whatever death holds...