A Letter From Depression

I will love every inch of you;
the delicate blue veins
you nearly miss every time.
I will be the glass
filled with water
that washes the pills down your throat
and I will hold back your hair
as your sadness splatters the porcelain.

I have heard that you want me dead.
I refuse to go alone.
I will pull your hand from everybody
you reach out to.
You are never alone
when you have me.
I will comfort you
in the dark
drown out reality with my screaming
white noise.

Forgive me when I turn sour
like the spilled milk
you cry over.
I mean not what I say
I love you so
(I hate you)
I make you bleed roses
spreading on the white sheet.
Wilting flowers growing from your skin
finding new life
on the edge of a razorblade.

I will say goodbye
and trick you
into believing
I have left.
Then weeks, months, years
later I will come back.
Like an old friend
or an unwelcome guest
back to settle into my old home
in your heart
dragging your soul down.

I have heard that you hate me.
But when all is said and done
who will lie with you
in that box
and listen to the handfuls of soil
raining on the lid?
Six feet down,
together.
I will not leave without you.

-R.W

Siamese twins

Fall like children's dreams
into a new morning.
New me
new girl birthed inside the earth.
A ghost sticks in my throat
and a thousand voices burst inside my lungs.
This is the unseen side of me
the creature that lurks
just beneath the surface.
A white-hot woman who is in my bed
and I have been replaced
with the other one.
Like a flame extinguished in a dark room
she disappears
and shadows dance inside my mind.
The slam of a door
my swan song.
That other version of me
she is no more.
That girl that I once was
she does not live here anymore
the walls have cracked and fallen down;
skeletons from the closet
now lie scattered bones across the floor.
Nobody called her out to play
and sadness withered her away.
She doesn't come around here anymore.
You won't catch her around here
not anymore.

-R.W

Suicide as a promise to myself for when I fail.

I promise it to myself,
as if it were something shiny and new to be had,
a gift to myself that I have saved up for.
Just as others save themselves for a new car
or a cake on their diet cheat day
or a dinner date with a loved one.
I have saved myself for this.

I will drive that car straight off a bridge
and bake poison into the cake
and I will make a date with the devil.
This is the only way

Years spent wishing I were someone else.
In another life
maybe I could have been happy.
I wish that the monsters would stay under the bed for once
I wish that I could have one last good day.

I can’t be one whole person.
I am fragments of many
and the pieces of the puzzle don’t fit together to make a real picture.
I am a fake girl,
from the smile down to the words
and I am sure if you cut me open
the stuffing would pour out at the seams.

Back to the promise I made to myself.
Is it selfish to think that if I can’t have what I want
then what is the sense of wanting anything at all?

If the next words out of your mouth aren’t a real promise
I hope you keep it shut forever.

-R.W

Colours

I wish that I could write as beautiful as I want the world to be.
I wish that things were different
and that for a change, the grass would be greener
on my side of the fence.
But green is not my favourite colour.

I like blue.
There are some beautiful things that are blue
like the sky, and the ocean, and they’re the best coloured M&Ms
even though they all taste kind of the same.

I also like red.
Like roses, and the postbox on the corner down the street, and the big red buses in London.
Full to the brim with people who have so many unimaginable stories of their own

Yellow can be striking, too.
Like the centre of a daisy, and rubber ducks, and the sun.
Although I suppose that’s not really yellow, but it sure looks it from 150 million kilometres away.

But I feel blue when I’m sad,
and sometimes red when I’m mad,
and yellow when I’m scared I’ll never get the things I wish I had.

I picture myself sometimes, somewhere that’s breathtaking.
But every breath that I’m taking just seems like a chore
and I am running out of time to be the person that I wish I could be.

I like the good parts of the world:
The forests and the beaches and long forgotten side streets
and the vast open spaces in between all of that.
But it’s getting hard to see over these walls I have built for myself
and I don’t know if I’m going to put a roof on top yet,
just to stop the rain from hammering in on me.

It would probably leak anyway

-R.W