I crave it.
not for the attention,
but for the sharp edges to carve deeper,
into my skin.
I am addicted.
The way people are to alcohol.
It fuels me up inside when I run out of
reasons to stay alive.
I can't stop,
It's too late.
I can't tell.
They think I want people to notice me more,
to pity me and empathize with me.
I want none of that.
I can't help but think I deserve it.
I do it because I can't be
good enough.
When has anyone told me,
"You're enough,"
Nobody.
Absolute silence.
YOU ARE READING
In The Mind of Depression
PoetryA "book" full of poems, from a depressed child. These poems are just sincere words and do not (and will not) always make sense, so I antecedently apologize.
