The happy carefree girl that is roaming the outside
is no match for the demons living within
and while she tells herself she’s not crazy,
everything else convinces her she is.

I can’t count the days on my fingers that I didn’t want to care
I can’t tell you how many times I said it’s not worth it,
and I certainly can’t tell you the number of days that I pushed on,
because those, are still being counted.

And while the pain and anger is still being mounted
I just can’t see the light.
For every “It will get better,”
all I want is one proof.

One proof, that will make me see that staying is worth it.
One proof that will make this dark cloud part.
One proof that's’ cry is loud saying,
“You are strong, The end is near.”

But I live in fear.
Everyday I live in fear
that my tomorrow won’t come because my only enemy,
was the one I couldn’t stand up to.
That the only reason I couldn’t confront it was because it was inside me.

The fear slowly turns into a lurking shadow surrounding me,
The shadow of anxiety relentlessly digging its claws into my heels.
The cold gnarled hand that grabs onto my arm and pulls me around like a rag doll.
The same shadow that makes me feel like I’m 10 sizes too small.

And the shrinkage continues
as the judgmental looks of my mother and so called “friends” pierce me
like I will later do to my skin with the blade,
liberating me of the heavy cloak for moments at a time.

And the cries that scream are all but silent,
sometimes they reach the surface and although a hand is offered to save me,
I bitterly refuse it, because I’m all too stubborn to admit I need help.

Deep down that strong girl is still there
She waits in a cage longing for the day she is set free.
Her soul aches to fill the body of that happy carefree girl.
She begs her captor to let her again give insurance to that personality.

Silently she prays to the God she long gave up on.
One that the person she so desperately wants to embody, does not believe in.
Yet that God seems to be too busy,
creating bombers and their victims,
mother’s separated from their children,
and most importantly, ones suffering from none other than themselves.

Don’t try and tell me I’m not crazy.
That I will get over it,
that’s it’s just a phase.
Because now, its more than just a phase.

Depression has become my full time job.
One with no health benefits
and long grueling hours with less than no incentives.
Depression has become my full time job, and as much as I want to quit,
I have no idea how to write a letter of resignation.