You tell me to be happy,
You tell me to find a therapist,
To untangle the intricate assortment of knots that tighten around my heart like a hangman's noose.
You say, "it gets better."
You don't quite understand.
Have you ever stopped to think, between your brief looks of pity
That I don't want it to?
Now, what an awful thing to say.
Let me explain.
That's what my depression provides.
The icy spear of agony that pierces my heart offers more shelter than anything you can come up with.
It's the cold brick wall that I lean on after pulling through a hard day.
It stays, waiting to greet me at the door of hardship and loneliness.
The anguish lays dormant in my mind, whispering in my ear so I don't forget of its existence.
My depression is not a monster. It does not pursue me with clawed fists, nor a dark aura.
It offers its hand in a display of honesty. Trust.
It leaves an empty void in my brain, teaching me the irrationality of filling it with fickle people who all eventual