This longing that is constant is not what I expected.
The weight of existing is a shotgun pointed at my temple.
Sometimes breathing and eating require too much.
The anxiety and detrimental stress consume me.

Return To Sender.
Please...

Crashing against the rocks.
                Washing away the sand.
                             Weathering it to glass.

Depression is like waves.
                  And I am already glass.

I've imagined it a thousand times.
Hoped for it more.
Sometimes I lay awake at night,
Coming up with different scenarios.
I imagined myself having a stroke.
I even imagined overdosing.
And then compulsively looked up if I could do such a thing on my medication.
I guess I'll be here a while.