would you please hold my hand? just for a bit.
as i continue to deteriorate, i know i might not be here for much longer.
the black hole has taken form and it's destroying everything.
the blood-filled tears spill over and smear my eyes
that look up to you and plead.
when i look in the mirror, i only see this pretty girl, i don’t see me.
i see, instead, a bag of bones with loose clothes
because i can’t be bothered to feed myself.
i gaze blankly at this silent beast that no one could ever truly love.
all i see is my unkempt hair; hasn’t met a brush in two weeks.
my lips, skin, and hands are chapped and faded.
i am becoming a ghost; haunting my own life.
my life, every action…why bother? it’s all wasted.
yet, i know this thinking; it’s hazardous to my health,
but i’m not thinking anymore.
it's all just an instinct.
i am a pretty crier and that trumps my pain.
the endless downpour,
the red stinging blindness,
the struggle to breathe...
but at least i look pretty, right?
i’m in so much pain, yet i’m so numb.
i love the cold, but i hate the feeling.
this emptiness inside, hollow and dark,
i know not what’s in there.
but, i know that depression and i
are slowly getting on a first name basis.
so, if you hold my hand, i am further along than i ever thought i could go.
i would never think so much as for someone to love me like this.
i just want you to fill the void,
but i’m scared you’ll get sucked in too.
i know i’m not experiencing life; i feel like i deserve it.
existing is exhausting.
it is just too exhausting.
i so badly wish i were not here.
to just blip out of time, out of everyone’s minds,
to be one with nothingness; melt out of existence.
the words don’t flow like the rivers, unlike my tears.
they are dragged by gravity in large droves with no structure.
i wish instead to be observed like a painting:
ornate, still, and purely for decoration.
bed is my best friend, yet also my tomb.
i wrap myself up in safety: cold confinement.
the dry open eyes, staring at the wall,
cry, cry it all away.
bury me in this sorrow.
since when did falling asleep get this hard?
i’m not modern depressed. i am classical suffering.
how can i pour myself into projects
when i’ve been wrung out for months?
distractions…a limited obsession,
pulling myself away from reality.
prying, tearing, it all falls away
with any part of myself that ever existed.
many times i forget i can’t feel.
it’s been normal for way too long.
i don’t think i’m suffering.
nonetheless, my agony never ends.
so, if you hold my hand, please, please don’t let go
i’ve lost so much already to this intricate web of darkness...
i can’t lose you too