“You don’t get that it doesn't just go away. It’s something I have to fight every day. No matter how happy I am with you, and believe me, I am happy,” he explained. “It still follows me around. The depression, the self-loathing, the loneliness.” He said. His voice struggled to get the words out, stuttering and straining with each word. “I’m sorry.” He choked.

“I am worthless.”
“You are not worthless.”

“I don’t deserve to be happy.”
“Everyone deserves to be happy.”

“It’s all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.”

“No one loves me.”
“I love you.”

“No one would care if I were dead.”
“I would care.”

“I can’t live with myself.”
“I can’t live without you.”

A pale canvas lies before you.
You pick up your paint brush and think.
An artist deciding what to make.

What shall you create?
Horizontal lines in a row?
Diagonal ones?
Maybe vertical?
Should they intersect?

Your face is pensive as you make your strokes.
With each glide of your tool, vivid red invades the emptiness.
Sighs of relief escape your lips as you finish.

A ****** wrist, your masterpiece.

Rub.
Rub.
A clean, smooth wrist.

Press.
Press.
An icy razorblade.

Slash.
Slash.
Two red lines.

Drip.
Drip.
Warm, crimson blood.

Sigh.
Sigh.
Overwhelming relief.

Smooth skin, bumpy marks.
Gentle touch, jagged scars.
Mended mind, broken heart.
Cheerful smile, hides it all.

Bright eyes, dark soul.
A thousand dreams, no goals.
Climbing up, digs a deeper hole.
So many friends, yet you feel alone.

There are two sides to every mask,
You make deciphering a difficult task.
There is the fake face that you see,
And then the real man underneath.