I've got the January blues,
The Monday heaviness,
A kind of Tuesday Sadness.
I've got the Wednesday empties,
The Thursday lonelies,
And a Friday full of Madness.
Saturdays are cold and grey
While Sundays seem to slip away,
And the week recycles into blandness.

In remembrance of you today,
That you existed and touched this Earth
With loving hands.
Now, we've lost another in a similar way.
Keep him safe as he passes on.
You matter.
You are loved.
In remembrance of you today,
The joy you brought
And the kindness you bestowed.
My grief comes in waves,
But I never regret knowing you.
In remembrance of you today.
I miss you from Earth.

I wish that I could trust my brain
To, at the very least, remain the same,
Forever wed to depression's corner.
In the dark, growing colder.
But now Paranoia like a flower blooms,
And I hear the footsteps as he haunts my room,
Breathes down silky skin of neck
To prove he's there and away I shan't get.
His shadow lurks around every turn,
And he taints the world with smells that burn.
I am lonely in this terror
Of stalker and murderous specter.
I tell them he's coming to get me,
But alas, only I can see him.
I wish that I could trust my brain,
But it makes monsters all the same.

I am the apocalypse,
Blood red sky that hangs over muddy water.
I am the fire that makes ashes
Out of endeavors to be more and better.
I am the poison in the well,
Taint that slithers beneath your skin.
They should've warned you
That the darkest things come in the nicest packages.
Do you dare to open mine?

Sometimes I think that if my heart beats fast enough,
It could outrun this feeling,
Like if I reach a high enough BPM,
I might suddenly feel as if the world makes sense again.
I might not feel like I am drowning
In a vat of electrically charged water
Or trying to plug up the holes from which my emotions keep bleeding.
I think my heart believes that a little tachycardia might cure me,
Might purify me of this pain.
Why else would it speed onwards so?

Dear Me,
You have always been enamored of language and vocabulary,
But your words are better suited for shaking the earth at a slam
Then writing your own obituary.
Is it not true that you have been unimpressed with every suicide note you’ve ever written?
What compels you to believe you’d do it better this time?
Dear Me,
We’ve courted suicidality like an ill-fitting suitor for enough years to recognize
The red flags by now.
Isn’t it time we stopped accepting pale apologies for the bruises it has left on our psyche?
“I am sorry” means little when it’s written in your own blood.
“It’ll never happen again” is a futile phrase when uttered more than once.
You used to believe that abuse was the price of being loved,
And should we not retire that sentiment?
Dear Me,
They told me to make peace with the fact that I may always want to die,
But you always wanted sugar as a child,
And what did that give you but a bellyache?
It’s not required to indulge your every whim.
Contrary to your own belief,
The thoughts will not **** you.
The last ten years of your life are proof that you can deny this demand.
Think of it like a work order,
A request that you repair yourself.
The goal is not that you never teeter on the edge.
It’s that you know in the end,
It isn’t a viable option.
Dear Me,
I used to think that “nice girls” never wanted to **** themselves,
But I’ve met a lot of “nice girls” who’ve sought a way out.
This desire is not a commentary on your value as a person.
You can be kind and broken and worthy at the same time.
Being happy is not a contingency of being whole.
Dear Me,
You’ve borrowed time the same way some borrow clothes,
Trying on different ages to see what fits,
Wondering what 60 is going to look like on you
When you haven’t grown into your 20s yet.
Your jeans from when you were 15 no longer hang in your closet,
And that proves you can take anything to the thrift shop when you outgrow it.
Dear Me,
I know you’re tired of these seemingly endless circles,
But you were told that mental illness is like a spiral staircase.
You still spin around even as you climb.
You are not the same person as the last time you wanted to die.
This moment is proof that you have changed despite feeling stuck in the same spot.
Dear Me,
It isn’t your job to befriend every lonely being in this world.
The Reaper will be fine if you tell him to make his own acquaintances.
You do not owe him your time and affection.
It isn’t your job to answer his calls.
Let it go to voicemail.
Dear Me,
I am not angry that we’re here again.
This is a love letter to the part of you that wants to die.
It is understandable to wish for an end to this pain.
You are still mine when you’re hurting.
I love you for all the times you’ve wanted to call it quits
And still showed up for practice the next day.
I pray that one day that kind of strength is unnecessary,
But never let it be said that you weren’t strong when it counted.
Dear Me,
We are in this together,
And I am never letting you go.

I yank the tears from my chest
As if plucking them out will some how
Cure me of Depression's persistent arrhythmia.
The salt water,
Flowing from my heart's wounds,
Is bitter and jagged and hard won.
I wonder if I cry enough tears whether
I will feel lighter or simply be dehydrated.