this is not a death-wish
this is a resurrection.
on nights, you grow
weary of the sound of
your own breathing,
there is a fierce sun
burning inside you,
you must use it to grow,
not to scorch all you have.
you have tender hands,
why do you use them
to peel away your
conscious?
there is a thunder in
that insipid heart of yours,
go, forage it out.

Depression is like waking up sick, everyday since the last time that you could remember. You carry around the cure, in the unkempt form of your mind.

Standing on the edge of an abyss within herself she looks down at its depth.
She's afraid of the free fall.
But she's more afraid to stay.