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

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