How am I anything more
Than an inflated sack
Packed with meat and bones
For this monster to
Lick his lips and gnaw on?
I am the epitome of
This demon's lavish feast,
The one that whispers to me
Words that roast my mind
And he keeps on adding spice,
Waiting for the chance
To rip a chunk from my heart;
But that would be too easy,
He likes the way my tears taste
And why would he end his pleasure?
The demon plays with his food:
This is how I am devoured
By this ruthless thing I call Depression.

Some days I am so done,
I just whisper, "Bon apétite".