The Pathless Path
No one asks what depression tastes like
It tastes like a rag used to clean blood and vomit.
Overstimulated and numb, draining me like a faucet.
Sleep, wake up, over and over.
Sleep.
Wake up.
What am I doing this for?
Sleep.
Wake up.
My worth wavers in my mind.
My strengths
My weaknesses
Sleep.
Wake up.
There’s a part of me that despises myself
And the other part wants to reject that part.
At the end of the road
If the only thing waiting for me
Is a mountain of mental corpses,
what then
Sleep.
Wake up.
Are you depressed because you’re sad?
Or, are you sad because you’re depressed?
I hate myself.
I despise
myself.
That is the feeling I chose.
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