"Write," people say.
"It'll help with the pain."
But what if every time I pick up a pencil
I only go more insane?

I stay in my depression.
I can't say I'm brave.
I'm stuck on this merry-go- round
and I no longer want to play.

It doesn't make me stronger.
It only makes me sadder.
If this goes on any longer
I know I will decay.

Writing is a reminder
of where and how I went wrong.
It reminds me of the regrets,
I'm hearing the same old song.

So when people tell me to write
I want to sit and scream.
All I ever wanted was
to leave this dreadful dream.

Staring back at a skeleton,
watching the sharp, jutting
edges of my ribs ripple
like ocean waves whenever I move.
I can see the bones in my
back
chest
arms
legs
hands
And even though I'm near my death bed
all I see is a fat girl instead.

You told me you loved me
and I said It back,
not knowing you meant it in that way.